


As Fate Made Us

by envythenight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Moriarty is a sociopath, Moriarty speaks Irish, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, though it is tempered by the existence of soulmate marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envythenight/pseuds/envythenight
Summary: Since he's been old enough to read, John has always looked forward to meeting his soulmate.oh, we’re going to have a lot of fun. Didn't that just sound like someone you wanted to love for the rest of your life?





	As Fate Made Us

**Author's Note:**

> So it seems like I have a million and one things I want to say about this story, but I’m not going to write an author’s note longer than the story itself, so I’ll try and keep this short. This story is funny in that I ended up writing a completely different story to the one I’d intended. I’d intended to create a story where John finds out his soulmate is Moriarty and, understandably horrified, never says a word to him so he can’t find out they’re soulmates - but Moriarty becomes too curious about John’s selective mutism and ends up falling for him anyway. To be honest, I still want to read that story, I just don’t think I can write it lol. So if anyone out there gets inspired, with any characters and pairings, shoot me a link because I will be there. 
> 
> Anyway, in this story, Jim uses Irish words occasionally. As this story is from John's perspective, and he doesn't bother to find out what he's saying because he just doesn't care, no translations are provided in text. Contextually, you should be able to work out the gist, but again, John doesn't put any thought to those words, so he doesn't comment on them. That being said, I have put translations in the end notes, which I hope will give some belated extra perspective to Jim, who we only get to find out about through the lens of John :)
> 
> Finally, I must apologise for the inevitable "first meet" scene that always arises in these fics; you're probably as bored to death of them as I am. I've tried to cut it down to as bare bones as I can, whilst still retaining the important information, so we can get on to the original stuff quicker!

Of all the days to meet Mike Stamford, his ex uni mate, John wouldn’t have chosen the one where he’d woken up with a series of faint grey marks running around the flesh just above the elbow joint on his right arm.

Mike had spotted him at the local park, which was irritating because he’d really only gone outside to release the build up of nervous energy he’d been collecting and have some time to himself to think, but politeness had forced John to make conversation. To be honest, even now, being led through the sterile corridors of the hospital while Mike chats away, his mind is still circling around thoughts of soulmates and blurred words and missed chances, rather than really paying attention to Mike is saying.

He almost wishes he hadn’t seen the marks.

“I’m curious to see what you think of him,” Mike says, distracting John from his thoughts momentarily. “He tends to… divide opinion, shall we say.”

“That… doesn’t sound good,” John says, rubbing at his right arm. It still stings.

Mike is silent for a moment, as though trying to work out what to say.

“The thing is,” he says slowly, “he’s very intelligent. And sometimes he forgets that not everyone’s the same as him.”

“I see,” John says.

It’s true: he’s known people who, for whatever reason, didn’t see the world in quite the same way that most people do. He’s seen the rift that such a difference in viewpoints could create.

They pass a bathroom, and with John’s arm still stinging a little, he decides to run it under some cold water and see if it alleviates the pain. If it persists, he’s going to have to try some ice later, and then some anti-inflammatories if that doesn’t work.

He peels back his sleeve as he enters the bathroom. Mike waits outside. Standing in front of the mirror, John reaches down to turn on the tap and freezes.

The writing isn’t blurry anymore.

John grabs the edge of the sink, feeling dizzy. How can he have made the decision which leads him to his soulmate already? 

Taking a deep breath, John looks at the words wrapped around his forearm.

_oh thank you afghanistan or iraq which was it afghanistan_

He lets his breath out. There was no way it was happening today; the guy Mike was leading him to couldn't be it. After all, there was no way someone could see him in civilian clothing and instantly know that he was a soldier. His cane might give something away, but to be honest, he could have a cane for any number of reasons, most of which don’t include getting shot at in a war, and Mike won’t be so crass as to bring it up to a complete stranger.

John doesn’t know how to feel. Until today, he’s only had one soulmate, destined to him since he was young, whose path hadn’t crossed with his yet. He’s never been the impatient sort, and he’s never made any attempt to bring their meeting closer; it’s enough for him to know that his soulmate is out there, and let fate deal with the rest. But because of that, the soulmate fantasy has always seemed a distant dream, something that will happen _eventually_ , but certainly not today. So perhaps he’s glad that he’s not meeting them now; it would have been a little overwhelming to meet his soulmate the same day he got their words.

He gives himself a moment to savour the new words. Their tone seems so different to that of his first words, and he wonders if that’s a sign of the personalities. He’s always liked the sound of his first soulmate, ever since he was old enough to read and understand the words running along his wrist: “oh, we’re going to have a lot of fun”. He likes the playfulness and joy in them.

On the other hand, he can’t decipher what the new words speak of. A fellow war commisorator? A pension provider? A friend of a friend?

Sighing, he rolls up his sleeve. The stinging is gone.

He exits the bathroom, and Mike asks if he’s okay.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, somewhat absentmindedly.

“Okay, well we’re almost there,” Mike replies cheerily.

They turn left at the end of the corridor, walk a bit further, and then Mike gestures grandly to a door in front of them.

“Here he is!”

He opens the door, and holds it open for John to walk through after him.

The lab on the other side of the door is dark, but John just makes out the silhouette of a man hunched over a microscope. His right hand rests on the back of his neck; his left sits on the microscope dial.

The door closes behind them with a snick and Mike flicks the light on.

“Bit different from my day,” John notes, glancing around.

“You’ve no idea,” Mike says.

The man who was standing over the microscope sits down and says, without looking at Mike:

“Mike can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

He says it in a way that suggests he’s not considered the possibility of Mike refusing.

“Well, what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asks wearily.

“Prefer to text,” the man replies. Mike rummages through his pockets and sighs.

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t sound very sorry at all. “Left it in my coat.”

John says nothing for a second.

“Uh, here,” he says finally, deciding it would be rude not to offer a phone when he has one. He rummages through his pockets and grabs hold of Harry’s old phone. He holds it out in front of him. “Use mine.”

“Oh,” the man utters, his piercing blue-grey eyes flicking over to him. He’s clearly surprised. “Thank you,” he adds as an afterthought. He stands to take it.

“That’s an old friend of mine,” Mike introduces, as the man strides towards John. “John Watson.”

The man takes the phone from him, and starts texting immediately.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he throws out casually, not even looking up from the screen.

John swears his heart stops.

“Sorry?” he asks, struggling to gather a hold of himself, leaning heavily on his cane as his legs fail him.

“Which was it,” the man asks, finally turning to look at him, a small, satisfied grin on his face, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John glances at Mike, who’s smirking, like this is exactly what he’d expected. He doesn’t understand that John’s world has taken a sudden turn into an unexpected territory.

“Afghanistan,” John answers, somewhat faintly, not knowing what else to say.

The man hasn’t even reacted to his own soulwords being spoken.

“Sorry, how did you—” John asks, but he’s interrupted before he can finish.

“Ah, Molly!” the man exclaims.

John turns to see a rather ordinary-looking woman, with her hair scraped back into a ponytail, entering clasping a mug of coffee. “Coffee, thank you.” The man passes John back his phone and reaches out to grab the coffee. “What happened to the lipstick?” he asks sharply.

Molly freezes, glancing around.

“It wasn’t working for me,” she says quickly.

“Oh really?” He turns away, heading back to his microscope. “I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth’s too… small now.”

“Okay,” she breathes, and hurries out of the door. The man doesn’t seem fazed.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John is distracted for a second by Molly’s exit and is convinced he misheard the question.

“Sorry?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking; sometimes I won’t talk for days on end.” He turns to John. “Does that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“D— You told him about me?” he accuses Mike.

To be honest, that’s the only way he can make sense of this, to understand how that man’s first words were what they were.

“Not a word,” Mike grins.

 

* * *

 

It’s strange to move in with his soulmate the same day he got their mark and met them for the first time, but what’s stranger still is his soulmate doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Sherlock hasn’t said a word about their words. Yet he knows so much about John, treats John so casually and almost as an extension of himself, that John can’t believe he doesn’t know.

All the same, John would rather like it to be acknowledged. He drops hints from the off, an ‘is this it then? We’ve just met and we’re moving in together’ and a ‘we don’t know a thing about each other’ but Sherlock never responds as he expects. He wonders if Sherlock might be one of those people who doesn’t want to acknowledge it until they know each other better, which John can almost respect, except he feels like he’s simultaneously being blown hot and cold.

And then Sherlock abandons him at a crime scene.

“I’m nobody,” he tells Donovan, when she asks who he is to be waltzing in with Sherlock Holmes, and the words taste bitter in his mouth because they’re true.

He takes the lonely walk to the main street in cold silence. A public phone box rings as he passes by, but he tunes it out quite quickly, his mind on more important things.

He won’t pretend he isn’t hurt by Sherlock’s disappearance. Even if they weren’t supposed to be soulmates, it would be rude. As it is, it feels almost like a betrayal: Sherlock had seemed to want John there, but then had barely spoken to him before running off to do God knows what with hardly a glance back.

Sherlock didn’t even seem to think twice about leaving a disabled war veteran alone in an unfamiliar part of London. His soulmate.

Perhaps that’s because Sherlock is already quite happy with his _deduction_ that the limp is fake – psychosomatic, he called it. Well, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

John hears another phone ring, and abruptly silence as he walks past.

He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand Sherlock.

Slowly, Mike’s words from the other day float into the forefront of his mind: Sherlock is intelligent, but sometimes forgets that not everyone is like him. Perhaps Mike was wrong though; perhaps the truth was that people forgot Sherlock was not like _them_.

John doesn’t consider himself stupid by any means, but the cab ride to the crime scene taught him one thing: Sherlock does something far beyond what most smart people can do. The speed with which he can reach conclusions on the smallest of evidences probably makes him unique even among geniuses. As it is, geniuses already experience a lack of emotional development compared to their more average peers; if Sherlock is unique among geniuses, he has likely had very little opportunity to ever account for other people in his thoughts.

John’s always able to understand viewpoints and mindsets completely different to his own, even when he doesn’t agree with them. That’s why he can see that maybe Sherlock didn’t mean to be so callous: it just didn’t cross his mind to think about the little things when he was focusing on the big picture. That’s not to say it’s an excuse; John certainly doesn’t think you can be accidentally cruel to people and wave it away with claims that you didn’t know better, but he believes something can be a reason without being an excuse.

A phone in a chicken shop next to him rings, but as one of the workers goes to answer it, it stops. John frowns. He’s sure that must be the tenth phone that’s mysteriously stopped ringing as soon as he’s passed by.

He shakes his head at himself. What sort of conspiracy does he imagine he’s at the centre of? Phones ring; that’s what they’re supposed to do. There’s no reason to think that something is happening here.

A phone box rings as he nears it. There’s no reason to think it’s for him.

He opens the door to the box, and picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

 

* * *

 

So after the most unnecessarily elaborate kidnapping he's ever experienced, he arrives back at Baker Street later that evening to find Sherlock lounging on the couch, one hand resting on the back of his neck, revealing three nicotine patches on his forearm.

“Well?” John prompts, trying not to sound a little irritated. _He_ gets kidnapped by some madman claiming to be Sherlock’s arch enemy, and Sherlock’s laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, doing nothing.

Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately, so he grits his teeth and tries again.

“You asked me to come. Took me an hour to get here, so I hope it’s important.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sherlock says, lifting his head up for a moment to look at him. “Can I borrow your phone?”

John suddenly understands why Mike hadn’t sounded very sorry when he hadn’t been able to lend Sherlock his phone.

“Here,” he growls, thrusting the phone into his face, but Sherlock, twirling it in his hands, stands up and faces the window, doing nothing with it. A moment later, he throws the phone to John without looking, and John only just manages to catch it.

“There’s a number on the table,” he says. “I want you to send a text.”

He rushes across half of London to send a text. Brilliant.

As he’s typing out the number and message, asking himself at every moment why on Earth he’s doing this, Sherlock is bustling around the flat. He seems perfectly happy to get up and move around now, the prick.

John pauses, head tilted, frowning. It couldn’t be that Sherlock was actually waiting for him, could it? He glances sideways at Sherlock to see it he can gain some sort of sign from him, but is completely distracted by the sudden existence of a pink suitcase that Sherlock is rifling through.

“That’s…” He takes a step back, eyes locked onto the case. “That’s the pink lady’s case, Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, not looking at him, his own eyes fixed upon the case like it contains the answer to a mystery.

John stares at him. Sherlock, in only a few hours, has managed to locate a piece of evidence that the police didn’t even know was missing, with only the clue that it must be pink.

Sherlock is… incredible.

Sherlock mistakes his silence for something else. His whole body sighs in annoyance, and he looks up from the case.

“Oh,” he says sarcastically, his eyes like flint, “perhaps I should mention, I didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did,” John says quietly.

“Why not? Given the text I had you just send and the fact that I have her suitcase, it’s a perfectly logical assumption to make.”

He dashes it out so quickly that John barely has a chance to hear it. He hears Mike’s words in his head again, and suddenly he knows that this sharp, defensive attitude has been cultivated by years of not being understood by anybody.

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” John asks.

Inexplicably, Sherlock smiles at him.

“Now and then, yes.”

 

* * *

 

The first few days with Sherlock pass by like a tornado. It feels like they’re filled with nothing but insults, seemingly accidental, and doing the most frustratingly simple tasks at Sherlock’s behest, but John, though he complains constantly, finds himself sticking around. He almost doesn’t know why he puts up with it, except he does: he starts to understand why Sherlock likes puzzles so much, because he spends all his freetime trying to work out how on Earth Sherlock can be his perfect match, and knowing the answer is just within his reach, if only he could just grab it, gets him through the days.

It’s funny because, despite Sherlock’s occasionally callous treatment, everyone seems to know. John finds himself denying they’re soulmates more times than he can count, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to care at all. Even with his promises to himself that he will try to accept Sherlock like no-one else seems to want to, he finds himself getting more and more annoyed that Sherlock doesn’t seem able to understand other people the same way he understands facts and evidence. Or perhaps the truth is, he wishes Sherlock were just able to realise, with all that intelligence he possesses, that John just wants to be acknowledged.

And yet, despite all that, in the moments when he’s not thinking about Sherlock’s stupid stubbornness, John can’t deny that his life with Sherlock is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He experiences joyous adrenaline again, adrenaline that doesn’t mean bombs and war and death. The chase for the cab, even when it turns out to not be the murderer, is the happiest he’s felt in a long time.

 

* * *

 

It often feels like John’s working at least two steps behind Sherlock, but that seems at least ten ahead of where everyone else is, because John’s the next one to figure out that it was the right cab, and he’s ordering a taxi (the irony) and chasing after Sherlock like his own life depends on it.

And perhaps in some ways it does, because he can see Sherlock through the glass but can’t reach him, and Sherlock is about to throw his life away on the roll of a dice and John’s filled again with rage and adrenaline and suddenly, he knows why he’s still here with Sherlock.  

The gunshot is loud in the silence, ringing in his ears all the way back down to the street, where he waits patiently for Sherlock to appear again. When he does, he somehow looks the same, and yet he’s changed completely.

“Good shot,” Sherlock says softly, and his eyes are warm with affection that John’s never seen before.

“Must’ve been,” John bluffs. “Through that window…”

“Well you’d know,” Sherlock says, lips quirking as though they’re sharing a joke.

John can only stare blankly at him. Sherlock tells him to get the powder out from under his fingernails so they can avoid a court case and it’s so kindly said that John feels like he’s experiencing whiplash.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks, concerned, when John doesn’t respond.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies automatically.

“You have just killed a man,” Sherlock points out.

“Yes, well…” John says, trailing off for a moment, before he meets Sherlock’s eyes and decides to go for broke. “He was going to kill you.”

Sherlock blinks.

“He was hardly going to kill me, I knew what I was doing,” Sherlock says in an annoyingly offhand way. “Besides, why should that matter?”

John stares at him.

“Well, other than the fact I’m not going to let a serial killer take another victim,” John starts, not really angry, although he might sound it. “You’re important to me.”

Sherlock blinks again, and John wonders if Sherlock’s ever been told that before. His earlier meeting with Donovan would imply not.

“Why?”

“Why?” John exclaims. He peels off his jacket and thrusts his right elbow into Sherlock’s face. “Why? This is why you stupid prick!” Sherlock stares at the black words twisting round his upper arm. “I haven’t only just met you to fucking lose you!”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, sounding like the wind’s been knocked out of him. There’s a couple of seconds of silence. “I didn’t know,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t know!” John says sarcastically, and then he looks at Sherlock’s face. He says again, gentler: “You didn’t know…” He takes a deep breath. “Is–”

“It’s on the back of my neck,” Sherlock interrupts. “I haven’t seen the words, but it’s been stinging since the day I met you, so it must be there. I’ve been told it can hurt if you don’t have it when you’re born.”

“Well that was fucking inconvenient,” John says, after a pause.

“Did you know three of your ten were ‘sorry’?” Sherlock returns with a raised eyebrow. “That’s what’s inconvenient! I mean honestly, even if I had seen it, was I supposed to be watching out for every apologising pedestrian on the street?”

John rolls his eyes.

“Apparently I was making up for the complete lack of politeness you have in general,” he retorts fondly.

All the way back to Baker street, they bicker, but John feels like he’s floating on a cloud.

 

* * *

 

Life with Sherlock is strange and wonderful. No one seems to understand his love of the spontaneity of cases and breakthroughs, the rush of solving a case with Sherlock, the knowledge that he is helping people.

Certainly, his life with Sherlock doesn’t seem to have helped his romantic prospects, with each attempt at a girlfriend finally giving him up when he’s pulled away for a case in the middle of a date for the third or fourth time. Not to mention the girlfriend who had been kidnapped along with him while they were on a date. That had certainly gone down the worst.

However John doesn’t find himself too upset at these seemingly dismal prospects. Unlike many people, who agonise over when and where and how they’ll meet their soulmate, or soulmates, John has always believed that he doesn’t need to worry about it; if the fates have written it on his skin, it must be bound to happen. Perhaps the time and the circumstances would change, but words themselves would always be the same. As such, he knows he will meet them when he meets them.

He also doesn’t worry about the sudden existence of Sherlock; his soulmate must be able to accept Sherlock into their life too, otherwise they wouldn’t be his soulmate. Besides, if his words are anything to go by, his other soulmate probably craves the adrenaline just as much as him, and will welcome Sherlock with open arms. Sherlock certainly is a lot of fun, after all.

All that being said, he decides to leave the dating by the wayside. Sherlock more than completes him, and he finds it hard to imagine wanting more than what he already has. Not to mention, his life is honestly too hectic right now for a partner, let alone another soulmate, and he’s sure that, looking or not looking, he won’t be meeting them for a few years yet.

 

* * *

 

Since the night of the cab driver, the name Moriarty has been following them for weeks, found in all the darkest corners of London’s crime life, and it feels that it is always creeping ever closer. Despite this, John is still surprised when Moriarty gets close enough to pounce.

He’s grabbed off the streets by a car, and for a moment he thinks its Mycroft, except Mycroft at least has the common decency to call first, and there’s no Anthea.

“Where are you taking me?” he demands of the driver, but there’s no response.

He tries the doors but they’re locked, unsurprisingly. He waves and screams at passing cars, but the windows are tinted and no one can see in. He starts banging on the windows, hoping to attract someone’s attention with the noise, and then the idea comes to him to try and break through the glass. He draws his fist back, and he hears the cock of a gun.

Slowly, his head turns to face the barrel of a gun. A distorted voice from the front seat says,

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Heart pounding in his throat, he lowers his fist, and doesn’t take his eyes off the gun for the rest of the car ride.

 

* * *

 

He’s blindfolded before they enter the building, and he’s shifted around thoughtlessly from person to person as they strap something to his chest and fiddle with it. After what seems like hours, he’s forced into a chair and tied down, the blindfold is removed, and he’s sitting alone in a room but for a sniper and a pale white man in a suit. His tie has skulls on it.

It looks like… Jim from IT, only… he looks different.

Surer.

Taller.

Colder.

“Sherlock’ll be here any minute,” Jim says slowly to the sniper. “Go get ready for him.”

“Yes sir, Moriarty,” the sniper replies, muffled and distorted, like the person in the car, and he leaves them

_Moriarty._

It feels like realisations come to him in waves: Jim from IT is Moriarty; there never was a Jim from IT; Molly was dating a criminal mastermind; Moriarty is going to kill him…

Moriarty smiles, a lazy, smug smile, that John knows is because he can see each realisation bursting in John’s head like flashbulbs. Moriarty steps closer, and John flinches away, but Moriarty pulls his face back, crouching in front of him.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun, Johnny-boy!” Moriarty sings, grinning maniacally, an Irish lilt light on his words.

A blast of frozen air rushes through him.

We’re going to have a lot of fun. We’re going to have a lot of fun. _We’re going to have a lot of fun._

Each beat of his heart pumps ice through his veins.

_We’re going to have a lot of fun._

John is frozen to the spot, his hands gripping the edge of the chair so tightly that they burn with cold. It couldn’t be true.

Tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. He fights against it, but his tears spill over, two tracks marking their way down his cheeks. Moriarty frowns.

“Crying?” he sighs. “Boring!”

Moriarty hasn’t even reacted at all: a sign that he’s as much of a psychopath as he appears. He certainly doesn’t have Sherlock’s excuse of never having seen the words before; those words have been on John’s skin since the day he was born.

“Oh, I hate the silent ones,” Moriarty grumbles, crossing his arms and pouting.

Silent…?

It hits him: Moriarty hasn’t reacted, because John hasn’t spoken his words. John has barely said a single word to him. And Moriarty will never know if John never speaks again.

John sets himself, blinking tears of betrayal away. He doesn’t need this Moriarty; he has Sherlock. And since he doesn’t need Moriarty, Moriarty sure as hell isn’t going to get him. Moriarty won’t get his words. And if John never speaks, maybe he can pretend none of this is real.

“Sherlock will turn up soon,” Moriarty says. “At least I’ll have a good conversation then.”

John glares at him, which seems to surprise and amuse Moriarty. He peers at John like he’s an interesting object, which is the exact opposite of what John wants right now, so he stubbornly turns his head away, still glaring.  

It is the longest hours of John’s life, waiting for Sherlock to appear. Moriarty talks to himself to pass the time, flitting between annoyed at John ignoring him and teasingly trying to pull words out of him.

“Come on, Johnny,” he wheedles. “Just one word for little old Jim?”

“I bet you talk to Sherlock all the time,” he strops, glowering with folded arms.

“I wonder if you know why you’re here,” he leads, raising an eyebrow in invitation.

“You spoke to me as Jim,” he ponders, finger placed comically at his chin in a parody of thought, but his eyes are locked on John’s. “I wonder why you’re so stubborn now.”

“Would you beg if I cut out your tongue?” he snarls, his face a fierce mask.

“Oh Johnny,” he sighs. “I only want one little word. Is that so hard?”

John bites his lip so hard it bleeds.

Moriarty is nothing like John expected. Through other people he’d sounded so cold and sinister, and he still is, only he makes it sound like it’s all a game he’s playing. Though given that’s the way Sherlock treats a lot of murders, perhaps that’s not so strange after all. Perhaps treating things like games was the only way geniuses stopped themselves going mad.

It’s a relief when Sherlock turns up, if only because Moriarty finally turns his attention away from John, and he finally spots an opportunity. He almost hopes he does die when he grabs Moriarty from behind and begs Sherlock to leave. How could be live, knowing that his destined is not only a serial killer, but orchestrates other serial killers’ murders?

But Moriarty knows just how to twist the knife and John releases him as the sniper’s mark hovers over to Sherlock’s forehead. John’s wonders if this is where he dies, and unlike before, he begs, ‘please god, let me die’.

But miraculously, selfishly, Moriarty lets them go and John collapses against a wall, pretty sure he’s experiencing the beginnings of a panic attack, or a delayed shock reaction, or both.

“Are you alright John?” Sherlock is asking, and John keeps replying, “Yes, Sherlock, yes, I’m fine,” even though he feels the furthest from it he’s ever been.  

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the flat that night, John crawls up into bed and stares at the ceiling. He feels like he wants to start crying and never stop, but he’s not going to let himself. Instead, he collects up every future hope, dream, desire, thought, anything, that he’d ever had about his first soulmate, cradles them to him in a moment of self pity, and then throws them up into the air and lets them dissolve around him like confetti.

It’s true what he said: he doesn’t need another soulmate, because Sherlock completes him anyway.

 

* * *

 

Of course, Sherlock can’t help but notice that the name Moriarty is now like knives down his back.

“Are you alright, John?” he asks John gently, one night where John’s sitting in front of the TV and Sherlock’s at his microscope. John thinks Sherlock only gets the courage to ask because they’re not looking at each other.  

“‘Course,” John says roughly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I’ve been talking about Moriarty for the past hour, and every time I mention his name your right arm twitches.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John sighs.

“Are you having…” he pauses, as though not sure of the right word. “Flashbacks?”

“No I’m not–!”

He stops suddenly, wondering if it might be better to allow a little lie rather than have Sherlock search for other solutions. He relaxes slightly, focusing on the TV.

“Yeah, a bit,” he says, which isn’t a complete untruth. “Dreams.”

He can feel Sherlock scrutinising him, and tries not to think about the words.

“Ah,” Sherlock says eloquently.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John says truthfully. “It’s just something I’ve got to deal with.”

 

* * *

 

He mostly deals with Moriarty by not thinking about him at all. That’s difficult enough when every day he has to see those god awful words etched in his skin every time he gets undressed, but it gets even harder when Moriarty seems to be making it his life’s goal to remind Sherlock at every turn that he exists. John starts counting himself lucky that he doesn’t have to see him in person ever again.

Then Moriarty breaks into the Tower of London and Sherlock gets called as a witness to the trial. John can’t bring himself to leave Sherlock alone in that pit of vipers, so he tags along, sitting as far in the back of the courtroom as he can.

It’s not enough. He tries so hard to focus on Sherlock (oh god he’s being a prick again, the jury are going to) but he’s hyperaware of every movement Moriarty makes, anything that could be a glance in his direction. John feels like he’s on the edge of a precipice every moment.

Moriarty makes no defence. As his barrister utters these very words, Moriarty makes a full turn round to look at John, and a knife of fear pierces his stomach. Moriarty pulls a face that would indicate concern, if it were genuine. He seems to think they’re in on some kind of joke.

John’s stomach turns over, and doesn’t stop turning until he’s out of the courtroom.

 

* * *

 

Moriarty’s plan is so subtle at first that even Sherlock doesn’t seem able to comprehend it. When John finally understands it, he can’t believe how cruelly apt it is. Sherlock may talk a good game, but ultimately, he does like to help people, and he likes that he’s the only one smart enough to do it; he likes the grudging respect he gets from people when he solves all the problems and they are forced to admit how much he sees. To make the world believe that he’s a liar, a fake, and not nearly as intelligent as he actually is? That would rip Sherlock’s heart out.

It’s some Richard Brook who pretends he knows the truth about Sherlock; Moriarty must have paid him off. It’s their only lead, so they head off to Kitty the reporter’s place, hoping to squeeze information out of her. Sherlock is pressing her to talk, when the door opens, and they all turn, Kitty looking alarmed and concerned.

“Darling, they didn’t have any ground coffee…”

The voice fades out as John’s entire body locks up, the Irish lilt frighteningly familiar, and John is frozen in fear at the sight of Moriarty, standing not four feet from him. Moriarty seems to only have eyes for Sherlock, but that doesn’t stop the pounding of John’s heart that seems to say with each beat ‘keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet’.

It takes John a few seconds to realise that Moriarty’s voice is quivering in a lie of fear.

“You’re safe, Richard,” Kitty is saying, and it slams into John like a freight train that Moriarty is pretending to be Richard Brook, just like he was pretending to be Jim from IT.

“So that’s your source,” Sherlock says calmly, but his eyes betray the fear behind the words.  “Moriarty.”

“There is no Moriarty,” Kitty snorts, as though she knows anything, when Moriarty is standing right in front of her. “There never has been, as you well know.”

“What are you talking about?” John snaps, making sure to direct his words only towards her.

“Look him up,” she shrugs, a smug smile playing on her lips. “Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes _hired_ to be Moriarty.”

John glances over to Sherlock; Sherlock’s mouth has dropped in sudden understanding, an understanding that John doesn’t feel he’s reached yet.

“Doctor Watson,” Moriarty says, addressing him unexpectedly. John turns to look at him directly for the first time tonight, fists balled and eyes hard with hatred. “I know you’re a good man, don’t– don’t,” he stutters, his fake attempt at fear burning fire through John’s veins, “h-h– don’t hurt me!”

“DON’T HURT ME!” he bellows, unthinkingly. “YOU STRAPPED A BOMB TO MY CHEST YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOU’RE MORIARTY! HE’S–!”

There’s a split second where John realises what he’s done. He freezes, mouth open as he tries to work out how he can take back the sounds that have left it.

For a moment so small that John can’t quantify how long it actually lasts, Moriarty stares at him. It’s so brief that John wonders if it even existed.

“He made me,” Moriarty begs pathetically, pointing at Sherlock, the moment gone. There is ice in John’s veins. “He made me...”

John is carved from ice, frozen to the spot, but Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock, is fire, a raging inferno as Moriarty’s lies spill forth, eyes burning until he can’t take it anymore and he steps towards Moriarty who screams and Sherlock yells and Moriarty flees and John is rooted to the spot.

Moriarty escapes through the window and John does nothing to stop it.

 

* * *

 

John still feels half in shock when they’re back on the streets and he doesn’t shake it off until Sherlock starts acting rather odd.

“There’s something I need to do,” Sherlock says suddenly, all emotion gone from his voice.

“Can I help?” John says, his concern for Sherlock finally burning away the remains of his fear.

“No,” Sherlock replies, in the same tone. “On my own.”

He strides away, without a glance back. John makes to follow him, ignoring Sherlock’s words, when something perhaps more important than the Sherlock mystery hits him. Torn in indecision, John looks between the receding Sherlock, and the way back to central London. Finally, with great reluctance, he walks away from Sherlock.

There’s a fire starting in his belly: the beginnings of rage. Mycroft has some answers to give.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know if he feels better or worse after seeing Mycroft. It had felt good to tear him a new one for giving up Sherlock, for betraying Sherlock, but it hasn’t changed the fact that the damage has been done.

When John arrives back at the flat at midnight, Sherlock is still out. It doesn’t surprise him too much.

When, at 4AM, Sherlock breaks down his bedroom door and plonks himself on John’s bed, that surprises him a little.

“Wha..?” John says blearily.

“Computer code is key to this,” Sherlock starts, and although he clearly came into John’s room to say this to him, it almost sounds like he’s talking to himself. “We find it, we can use it. Beat Moriarty at his own game.”

John works through the shiver that Moriarty’s name brings and tries to focus on Sherlock’s words. His brain doesn’t work well enough at regular hours to follow half of Sherlock’s thoughts, let alone at 4AM.

“What do you mean use it?” he asks sleepily, propping himself up with his elbow.

“He used it to create a false identity,” Sherlock rumbles. “We can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook.”

“And bring back Moriarty again,” John realises through a yawn.

“Somewhere in 221B, on the day of the verdict, he left it hidden.” Sherlock says, sounding like he’s talking to himself again, his fingers drumming a restless beat on John’s bed covers.

“... What did he touch?” John asks after a few seconds, closing his eyes to rest.

“An apple, nothing else,” Sherlock tosses out.

“Uh… God I don’t know,” he sighs sleepily. “Did he write anything down?”

“No,” Sherlock says shortly, fingers still tapping away madly.

Suddenly, his fingers slow, and then stop altogether.

“Have you figured it out?” John yawns.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but John feels him get up from the bed. If it wasn’t 4AM, John would push him further, but as it is, he’s happy to turn over, and get back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock goes missing for two days, appearing again late in the evening of the second day. He’s so restless it seems that bees are buzzing under his skin, but he won’t tell John what’s wrong.

“Is it Moriarty?” John asks, but he doesn’t get much of a response. Sherlock doesn’t even seem aware that John’s managed to say his name without so much as a tremor. He puts a cup of tea in front of Sherlock regardless, figuring that the old adage is probably true for Sherlock too: honey, rather than vinegar.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice much around him that evening, his eyes constantly flitting between the door and his phone.

“I was worried sick about you,” John tells him sternly when an hour of honey hasn’t worked. “I thought Moriarty’d got you or something!”

Sherlock’s lips twist in discomfort, though discomfort about what John isn’t sure. His emotional admission?

John sighs, knowing he’ll never win this one. He knows, intimately, without words, that Sherlock has almost got too used to the idea of not having a soulmate, and he still doesn’t always understand that someone could care about him so deeply that they would be devastated if something happened to him.

“I just wish you’d tell me before running off, sometimes,” John says gently. “You’re a huge, wonderful part of my life and it worries me when I don’t know where you are. Especially in our line of work! I mean, Christ,” he laughs, “do you remember the time I got kidnapped on a date?”

Sherlock actually looks him directly in the eyes for the first time that night, and bites his lip.

“I didn’t realise you… worried so much,” he says, his voice soft and low.

“Of course I do,” John scoffs. “You complete me, Sherlock, and I hope that in some way, I maybe complete you too.”

Sherlock’s eyes skitter away, and John can’t help but think he looks a little like a dog that’s shat on the carpet: guilty, but feeling so only because they know they’ll get in trouble.

“Just shoot me a text, mate,” John says lightly, not wanting to push the point too much. “That’s all I ask.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, John finds an unexpected parcel addressed to him on the doorstep of 221B. He doesn’t even think to be suspicious of it; the worry over Sherlock has almost erased the thoughts of what had happened those few nights ago at Kitty’s. He peels back the wrapping and lifts the lid, only to drop the box with a yell when he catches a glimpse of what’s inside.

A cold, pale, white hand falls to the floor.

His breathing short and shallow, John’s eyes dart around the room for any sign of Moriarty, but he sees nothing. He almost wishes he could sense Moriarty’s presence because it's the complete lack of anything that has him so on edge.

He stares at the hand for what seems like hours, until the realisation slowly comes to him that he needs to hide this from Sherlock somehow. Stomach twisting at the thought of picking the hand up, John collapses against the wall, trying to hold his breakfast down.

After several tries, he manages to gather together his courage and pick up the box and lid, hoping to get the hand back in without having to physically touch it. However, when he does so, he notices a piece of paper taped to the lid. With growing trepidation, he tears it off and reads it.

_Dear Johnny,_

_I know how much you value your morals, so I took the liberty of finding a paedophile who escaped jail by playing to the courts and I personally made him regret ever being set back on the streets again. Here’s a piece to show my affection._

_Love,_

_Jim_

John just about makes it to the toilet in time to throw up.

 

* * *

 

It takes him a good half hour to calm down. Each part of that small ordeal seems individually the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. By the end of it, he only manages to crawl his way back to sanity by completely ignoring that Moriarty seems to have send him some sort of… love gift. That thought is entirely too much for his mind to bear at this moment, when he’s still flinching at every cab that slows down near him and the smell of chlorine makes him feel sick.

Stomach full of ants, he uses the lid of the box to push the hand back inside and pens a furious note that makes clear that if he ever receives another body part on his doorstep, he will tell Sherlock and Mycroft. He doesn’t know if that’s a good enough threat, but there’s not much more he can go on. He’s not sure if there’s anything the criminal mastermind even fears.

He puts the box back on his doorstep with a generally directed glare. It’s gone in the hour and Sherlock never finds out.

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure what he expected the message to Moriarty to achieve. He’d _hoped_ that would be the end of it. Logically, he knew that was very unlikely to happen.

As such, he’s rather unsurprised when another unexpected package arrives on the doorstep of 221B about two days later. This time, no longer being naive, he debates the sensibility in opening this gift. For all he knows, Moriarty has completely ignored his threat and sent him something equally terrifying this time as well.

Truth be told, there’s very little reason for him to open the package this time. However, John’s aware that his personality is two parts sensible, one part thrill seeker, and one part ever curious, and the latter two parts are making a strong, if irrational, case. So, cursing himself under his breath, he peels back the packaging. This time, hoping it will at least prepare him for the shock, he pulls out the letter first.

_Dearest Johnny,_

_There are bad men out there on these streets. Don’t let them hurt you._

_Love,_

_Jim._

John snorts when he reads it: the irony of Moriarty telling him to watch out for bad men is laughable. Unfortunately, the note doesn’t give him much hint as to what’s inside. Burning with trepidation, he pulls the object inside the package out.

It’s both better and worse than he’d feared: a razor-sharp, golden-hilted knife.

“What the fuck,” he murmurs to himself. What on earth does Moriarty expect him to do with this? Is he supposed to carry this around with him on the streets?

Feeling like he’s acting as a parody of himself, he write in large letters on the back of the note, ‘No weapons!’, and folds it back inside the packaging. Then, somehow only then struck by common sense and annoyed at himself for it taking so long, he pulls the note out again and adds ‘No more gifts!’. Finally, once again, he places the package back outside on the doorstep, and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock has not stopped being twitchy over the few past few days, but John has honestly been a little more concerned with Moriarty’s packages to worry too much, especially since he knows Sherlock isn’t going to tell him what’s wrong until he wants to. That moment finally comes over dinner, the day after John receives the second package.

“Moriarty hasn’t contacted me at all since we solved his riddle,” Sherlock says abruptly, and John almost chokes on a noodle at the name.

“Sorry, _we_ solved?” he coughs, tears in his eyes.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock says, looking almost disappointed.

“No,” John agrees. “No, no, I’m just surprised you would include me in your deductions.”

Sherlock waves a hand to indicate he finds the whole thing trivial and he wants to talk about more important things.

“Why hasn’t he contacted me?” Sherlock presses, leaning forward, as though John has any insight into that criminal’s mind.

“Well, what was this riddle you solved?” John sighs, realising he’s going to have to catch up to where Sherlock is before he can advise.

“His number,” Sherlock replies. “I told him to meet me at Bart’s but he never appeared.”

“Is that where you were for two days?” John asks, horrified.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says impatiently. “But why didn’t he appear?”

“Are you sure you got his number right?”

Sherlock gives him a look and John raises his hands in defence.

“Okay, okay, I was just asking!”

Sherlock, clearly too agitated to remain seated, gets up and starts pacing the room.

“What could he want, John?” he asks, but John’s not sure if the question is actually being directed to him. “I thought I knew, but he didn’t take the bait…”

“What did you think he wanted?” John asks curiously.

Sherlock gets that look again, like a dog who’s shat on the carpet.

“My death,” he mutters. “My apparent suicide.”

John stands up now, staring at Sherlock in shock.

“Oh, I wasn’t actually going to do it,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Was _I_ going to know that?” John points out angrily.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, which is a response in itself.

“Oh for god’s sake, you arrogant, selfish arsehole!” John snaps.

“I didn’t know you’d be so upset!” Sherlock says defensively, and John blows up.

“You didn’t know I would miss my best friend and soulmate?” he asks in outraged amazement.

“Well I know better now!” Sherlock retorts.

“Oh my god…” John groans, running his hands over his face. “Okay, let’s just… ignore that for the moment, I suppose. Now that you won’t be running off and killing yourself apparently!” He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down.

Now that he’s thinking about it, it is strange that Moriarty would suddenly break contact when it had seemed that all he’d cared about was giving Sherlock a fall. He’d had such large plans in motion, and to seemingly drop them without a trace…

John freezes. No, it couldn’t be… Could it?

Surely it was crazy, John scoffed to himself. To think that Moriarty would drop his plans against Sherlock because, what? He was more interested in pursuing John? He knew that causing Sherlock’s death would upset John? No, it had to be madness to think so.

But what other explanation was there?

“Perhaps,” John says, aiming to say something only to make sure Sherlock doesn’t understand the true reason he’s gone so stiff, “perhaps he found something more interesting than you.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock brushes off. “I know how his mind works: the thrill of the chase should make him want to pursue it to the end. In a world of two dimensional, grey and drab objects, he will want to sink his teeth into those rare splashes of colour.”

Swallowing down the fear in his throat at those words, John tries to keep pushing this line of inquiry.

“Maybe he realised that if he kept pursuing this one that he’d have nothing left,” he suggests. “If he really was aiming to make you kill yourself, maybe he realised that once he did it, he’d have nothing left.”

Sherlock hmms, sounding unconvinced, but doesn’t completely shoot the idea down.

“Or maybe something more important came up,” John points out. “Maybe something time sensitive that he couldn’t leave until he’d dealt with you.”

Sherlock makes the same noise, but again, he doesn’t seem to reject the idea out of hand.

At least he doesn’t seem so restless any more.

 

* * *

 

John knows it would have been too good to be true for Moriarty to never contact him again. Before he even finds the letter, the hundreds of rose petals scattered across the 221B hallway make him groan internally.

He stomps down the stairs and before he can even begin to deal with the mess, Mrs. Hudson appears.

“Have you seen mess!” she exclaims. “I’m not your landlady, you know! I shouldn’t have to clean it up!”

“I know, Mrs. Hudson,” John sighs. “I’m going to deal with it.”

“Honestly,” she huffs, hands on her hips, barely listening. “How did this even happen?”

“I wish I knew,” John mutters, using his feet to kick the petals into a pile by the stairs. “Don’t worry Mrs. Hudson, I’ll deal with it.”

She makes a small noise of disapproval, but disappears back into her flat.

Through rearranging the petals into piles, he finds the handwritten letter addressed to him and he sighs, recognising the handwriting.

_Do you like pretty things? I will give them all to you, a chuisle._

_Love,_

_Jim_

John almost starts laughing, not because he finds the note or anything about the situation funny, but because he thinks he might be going mad. The only reason he manages to hold back the laughter is he knows that if he starts, it will never stop.

It seems that it’s finally hit him: Moriarty is actually trying to woo him. The criminal mastermind murderer is trying to make John fall in love with him.

It’s almost easier this time to write a note back, simply because the situation feels so surreal that he doesn’t really believe it’s really happening, even now, with hundreds of red rose petals at his feet.

_No more mess; I have to clean it up. Sherlock is getting suspicious of your disappearance; give him a game to play. NO MURDER._

He can’t believe he actually has to write that last sentence.

 

* * *

 

“John! Sherlock shouts excitedly, rushing down the stairs. “John, he’s back!”

“Who’s back?” John yawns, and then takes a sip of his morning tea.

“Moriarty!”

John’s hand jerks and he spills hot tea down his sleeve.

“Fuck,” he swears angrily to himself and goes to the sink to wash away the mess.

“He’s kidnapped five important people,” Sherlock continues, as though John hasn’t just severely burnt his arm. “He’s threatened to kill them unless we solve his puzzles!”

Sherlock grins toothily at him, bursting with happiness, and John manages a weak smile back although he feels sick to his stomach with worry that Moriarty doesn’t understand the words ‘no murder’, and if John’s the unnecessary cause of five people’s deaths, he’ll never forgive himself.  

“The game is on!”

 

* * *

 

A bouquet of roses appears on the steps of 221B the day Sherlock solves the last of Moriarty’s five people puzzle, and with a heavy heart, John picks up the note attached. He gives the roses to a passerby, who seems very disturbed at the donation until John makes clear that he’s not making some sort of gesture, he just wants them to take the roses away and do what they want with them.

_Did you have fun, a chroí? Do you want me to do it again?_

_Love,_

_Jim_

Numb of feeling except for the twisting in his chest, John pulls out a pen and writes his fears out in ink.

_Would you have killed those people?_

He wants to write more but the words won’t come. He doesn’t think he can stand to read the answers.

 

* * *

 

The next day, a dozen bouquets sit on the doorstep: six of red roses, six of white chrysanthemums. John stares at them for what feels like hours before, in a trance, he picks them up and peels off the note on the biggest bunch of chrysanthemums.

_No-- you asked me not to. I realise now that the thought of someone's death repulses you, even if they deserve it. Fear not, a chuid den tsaol, I will kill no one._

_Love,_

_Jim_

John reads the words over and over, tears burning in his eyes.

_I don’t believe you. Don’t write to me again._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s game with Moriarty continues, and John knows that if anyone dies, he will be to blame. Sherlock, as ever, doesn’t really seem to understand why John cares so much about the people rather than the puzzles. It takes such a toll on John that he sometimes stays home instead of gallivanting off with Sherlock. Sometimes Sherlock has the presence of mind to be surprised or confused at that, but most of the time he’s too lost in the challenge to really notice.

It’s on such a day that there’s a knock on the door when Sherlock’s out in West London, trying to determine how a wooden elephant could be the solution to a murder. John pulls the door open, mind still on Sherlock’s case, when he notices who is at the door and stills.

“Moriarty,” he whispers, as all the breath in his lungs escapes him, his hand gripping the door handle so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“I’m not Moriarty,” Moriarty says. “Look, I’m wearing a t-shirt.”

John recognises the shirt as the one Jim from IT wore. Apparently it’s just a part of Moriarty’s wardrobe.

“What,” John says sarcastically, “if you’re not wearing a suit, Moriarty just disappears? Just stops killing people?”

Moriarty blinks at him.

“Yes.”

John stares at him.

“Would you like to go on a walk with me?” Moriarty asks.

“Why on earth would I want to go on a walk with you?” John spits back.

“Okay, that was my fault,” Moriarty says, a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I should have phrased that better. I’m going to take a walk around Regent’s Park, and I’d like it if you came with me. Would you come with me, please?”

Oddly enough, it’s the please that does it. He knows it’s because he’s too much of a polite bastard to refuse someone asking nicely, no matter how much of a sack of shit they are, and he’s not happy about it. Besides, he wouldn’t put it past Moriarty to have some sort of deranged backup plan, and he’d rather not have to worry about those sorts of threats.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Wait here.”

He runs upstairs to grab his keys and takes his phone while he’s at it, much good it’ll do him. He meets Moriarty on the doorstep and closes the door forcefully behind them.

Moriarty has a spring in his step as they make their way over to the park. John can admit he’s looking forward to seeing Regent’s Park, as with all the work he and Sherlock do, he doesn’t have much opportunity for frivolous free-time activities such as this, even when the park’s only a two minute walk away.

The flowers in bloom show a dazzling array of colours, and John is easily distracted by the beauty around him. The world seems too tranquil, in contrast to most of his life, and indeed anyone’s life in London. He watches ducks with their little ducklings float down the streams, and almost forgets who he’s with.

They must have been walking for fifteen minutes or so when John realises that Moriarty hasn’t said a word to him. Confused, he glances over to Moriarty, who he finds is watching him contentedly. John looks away, uncomfortable being the centre of attention.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice sounding flat and emotionless.

“I want to spend time with you,” Moriarty shrugs.

“But _why_?” John presses, feeling angry at such a meaningless response.

“You’re my soulmate,” he replies simply.

John stops in his tracks and rounds on him.

“You– You are _not_ my soulmate!” he snaps, even as he feels his words burning on his wrist.

In response, Moriarty pulls down the v of his t-shirt, revealing the words pouring over his shoulder: _hi you too don’t hurt me you strapped a bomb_.

“I don’t care what the words say,” John hisses. “How on earth could I– How on earth could _you_ be meant for me? With all the things you’ve done?”

“Are you saying you never killed people in the war?” Moriarty asks, and it doesn’t feel pointed, yet it pierces John’s chest.

“That, is different,” John heaves out, breathing heavily.

“Yet it has one thing in common: we both valued our lives over another’s.”

“It’s different!” John snaps. “I didn’t– I didn’t have a choice!”

Yet he can feel the responses on anyone’s lips: he chose to join the army, he chose to go to Afghanistan, he chose to pull the trigger.

Moriarty doesn’t say anything though. Instead, he shrugs.

“No one can live up to the gold standard of morality,” he says, starting to walk forwards again, and John, unthinkingly, catches up to him. “Especially not someone like me.”

“Someone like you,” John repeats. “A sociopath.”

Moriarty flashes him a toothy grin.

“Just so.”

“Well then, why should I believe anything you say?” John pushes, lip twitching in distaste. “You’re a liar, and I’ve seen you lie and you can be quite convincing.”

He thinks of Moriarty in Kitty’s apartment, pleading that he’d only done what Sherlock had asked him to, looking terrified of Sherlock coming near him. He thinks of the letter: _Fear not, a chuid den tsaol, I will kill no one._

“That’s the very question I’ve been trying to solve,” Moriarty says, looking at him again. “The only solution I’ve come up with is one I don’t think you’ll like.”

“Let me guess,” John scoffs. “‘Just trust me.’”

Moriarty gives a lopsided smile and raises a hand in a half-shrug.

“You trust others all the time,” Moriarty says. “You believe everything they say without even blinking. You assume they’re just like you.”

“Yeah,” John admits, “but I don’t have actual proof that they’re sociopaths. You’ve even admitted it.”

Moriarty sighs, but he doesn’t sound frustrated; it’s more like he’s sadly understanding. It takes a few seconds for him to continue.

“Sherlock’s admitted he’s a sociopath, but you trust him with your life,” he points out.

“Yeah,” John says, “but he’s my–”

He freezes, and then stares at Moriarty, unbelieving.

“I’m going home,” he says abruptly, and leaves Moriarty standing by a patch of white chrysanthemums.

Moriarty doesn’t follow him.

 

* * *

 

John feels like he’s in a haze all the way up until his head hits the pillow that night, and then it feels like he’s all too awake. He stares at the ceiling, thoughts flashing through his mind like fish in a pond, too quick to catch, but lingering long enough for him to glimpse.

Moriarty is somehow, unbelievably, his soulmate. He’s seen the words to prove it, and Moriarty, for some reason, seems to want to pursue a mad course of action where they actually acknowledge it.

He doesn’t understand it, any of it. How Moriarty, of all the people in the world, is his soulmate, and why Moriarty seems to want to be with him.

When he was younger, he would wonder if abusers, or murderers, or rapists, could have soulmates, and if they did, what it said about those soulmates. The solution he’d come up with was that they couldn’t have soulmates; that they’d done such wrong that they didn’t deserve them. Now that he knows one of those terrible people does, it casts everything in a new light.

As he sees it, it can only mean one of two things: some people, perhaps good people, are saddled with the burden of trying to make an inherently bad person better and are perhaps doomed to lose themselves in the abyss; or, both soulmates are just rotten to the core, and they end up enabling each other to be their worst selves.

That leaves him with only one option: if Moriarty truly is his soulmate, then he, John, is responsible for him.

He doesn’t like it by any means. The thought of accepting that he’s likely to be miserable for the rest of his life, being with someone who can never truly understand him because they have no empathy, is not appealing. But if he has to sacrifice himself for the greater good, he will.

Besides, half the time it seems like Sherlock doesn’t really understand why John gets so bothered by people’s deaths. Sherlock doesn’t _like_ people dying by any means, especially because it means he’s failed, but he’s able to move on. He doesn’t mourn over them like John does.

John stares at the ceiling, refusing to grab any more thoughts. Despite this, a flash appears in his mind, a question he can’t answer: why does Moriarty want to be with him?

The only options he can see are ones that make no sense: Moriarty wants to be a better person, or he expects John to become a worse one. Neither are at all feasible.

This uncertainty unsettles him, but he forces it to the back of his mind: he’s made his decision. He will protect the world from Moriarty.

 

* * *

 

It’s a hot, stuffy day when Sherlock heads out to collect river water from various points across the Thames for “research”, and John quickly finds himself opening windows all over the flat to try and create a breeze. He’s just opening the final set of windows in the living room that look onto the street when he spies Moriarty, in a blue t-shirt this time, strolling down the street.

John immediately pulls himself back inside so he can’t be seen and hovers awkwardly in the middle of the room, knowing without a doubt that Moriarty is here for him. He’s unsure what to do in those precious moments before Moriarty makes himself known.

At the last moment, instinctively, he grabs his phone and keys, and not a second later there’s a knock at the front door. He hears Mrs. Hudson pottering round and, panicking, he yells down to her, “I’ll get it, Mrs. Hudson!”

He leaps down the stairs two at a time and yanks the door open. He tries to smile in welcome to the newly revealed Moriarty, but it probably looks more like he wants to be sick.

Moriarty seems to take it in stride and smiles genuinely, or apparently genuinely, at him.

“Would you care to join me for some ice-cream?”

John bolsters his resolve to make himself do this, and he replies, “Yeah, let’s go!”

Moriarty briefly looks at him like he’s acting oddly, but shrugs and doesn’t say anything. He leads them across the road to a Baskin-Robbins, where John has never been, despite its apparent proximity.

Moriarty’s like a small child, pressing his face against the glass and walking between each end of the ice-cream counter three times, peering down at each label like he’s making one of the most important decisions of his life. When he’s finally decided, John orders a cup with one scoop of pistachio almond, and one scoop of the slightly more adventurous butter pecan, while Moriarty orders a cone with one scoop each of caramel turtle, hokey pokey, peanut butter and chocolate, and love potion number 31.

Moriarty happily licks at his rapidly melting cone as they head, once again, to Regent’s Park. John can’t stop staring at him because it’s another one of those surreal moments where it feels like this shouldn’t be a moment that exists: he should not be eating ice-cream with Moriarty on the way to the park.

Moriarty catches him staring.

“All this brainpower needs a lot of calories,” he says defensively, and John rolls his eyes, choosing not to say what he’d really been thinking.

“Must be hard work if you eat like this every day,” John says.

“Actually, I don’t eat too well,” Moriarty says off-handedly. “I forget. I don’t eat like this every day.”

It reminds him of Sherlock: how Sherlock only eats mouthfuls of food when John forces him to, or how he picks absentmindedly at a plate when they’re out at a restaurant and he’s not being stimulated enough.

“Do I need to invite you out to dinner to make sure you eat?” John says unthinkingly, mind focussed on the similarity to Sherlock rather than who he’s actually talking to.

Moriarty whips round to face him.

“Like a date?”

John’s gut twists in guilt as he sees what looks like hope in Moriarty’s eyes, and he finds himself unable to shoot Moriarty down. He feels angry at himself, for both the guilt and his weak constitution, until he remembers that this is what he’s aiming for: getting Moriarty to trust him.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Like a date.”

Moriarty licks at his love potion number 31, grinning to himself.

“Should I…” John feels a rising urge to stab a sharp object into his chest. “Should I get your number? So I can text you the details.”

Moriarty nods eagerly and hands him a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. He had it pre-prepared.

“Don’t let Sherlock see it,” he drawls, but he’s still grinning.

“Oh, I won’t,” John mutters.

 

* * *

 

For all that he never intended to offer Moriarty a date, John spends rather a long time trying to plan a good one. The easiest part is already settled: they’re going to dinner. Beyond that, John has very little clue of what he should be aiming for. It’s their first date, and they don’t know each other that well, which would normally mean he’d go for something simple, like a local cafe or a chain restaurant. But then there’s the soulmate issue: he _should_ shoot for an impressive date to celebrate their finding each other, but he certainly doesn’t feel like this is something to celebrate yet.

In the end, he does his best to split it down the middle and books a local, mildly fancy Italian restaurant called Anacapri. He sends off the details to Moriarty via text, and waits for Friday night to roll round.

He doesn’t feel at all ready when it does, but that is inevitable. He bids Sherlock a cheery goodnight, trying to pretend this is a regular date, and heads to the restaurant, where it turns out Moriarty is already waiting.

“I’ve only been here a few minutes,” Moriarty assures him as the waiter places a basket of bread between them.

“Anything to drink, sirs?” the waiter asks, Italian accent heavy on his words.

“I’ll have a glass of the Rosso Piceno,” Moriarty says, not even looking at the drinks menu.

“Uh, just a tap water for me,” John says when the waiter turns to him.

“Very good,” the waiter says, and heads for the kitchen.

“So,” Moriarty says, picking up the menu, “do they do any vegan food here?”

John stares at him.

“You’re– You’re joking right?”

Moriarty looks mock offended for all of a second, before he laughs.

“I thought it would be funny to make you panic.”

“I didn’t panic,” John says. “There’s no way someone like you would be vegan.”

It comes out more bitter than he truly means it to and he bites his lip, but Moriarty shrugs.

“You know what they say about Hitler being vegetarian. Though there is debate about how true that rumour is.”

The waiter arrives at the table, bringing Moriarty’s wine and John’s water. Moriarty motions to them that they need a few more minutes.

“I could be, you know,” he murmurs, finger tracing the rim of his wine glass. “I have sympathy for animals, even if I can’t empathise with them; they’ve done nothing wrong. But truly, I see no reason to be: the advantage to me is so slight, and I will prioritise the short-term enjoyment over the long-term goal, even if I don’t want to. It’s easier to accept I won’t do it, rather than try, and fail.”

“So what have people done wrong?” John asks, anger burning in his chest. Moriarty cocks his head. “Why don’t you feel sympathy for people?”

Moriarty looks confused at the question.

“I don’t really see why I should have sympathy for them. Their dismal lives mean nothing to me.”

“So that’s why you do it,” John says flatly. “You kill people because they might as well not exist.”

“No,” Moriarty says. “That’s why I have no sympathy for most people; I killed people because it improved my life in some way, or made things easier.”

“And that makes it okay!” John explodes, then winces as a few people in the restaurant look over at them.

“It justified it in my mind, at the time,” Moriarty says, sounding almost blasé.

“Clearly,” John says bitterly, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “But hey,” he says sarcastically, “at least you’re not Hitler!”

John looks down at his menu, and forces himself to focus on each word so he doesn’t have to look at Moriarty. Moriarty seems to pick up on the message and doesn’t say anything, choosing to peruse his menu as well.

The waiter comes along not long after and Moriarty acts as though they’ve been in the middle of a lovely conversation, forcing a smile on his face. John orders pollo sorpresa, and Moriarty orders a fillet steak with a cream and white peppercorn sauce. As soon as the waiter leaves, Moriarty’s smile drops and he looks at John.

“Will you ever…” he says after a moment’s hesitation, but doesn’t finish his thought. His left arm twitches, and he raises it up to grab the fabric of his shirt just below his shoulder. “What would you have me do? To stop being a bad person? To wipe the slate clean?” he asks softly.

“Well, I,” John stutters out, blinking rapidly, completely thrown by the question. “Well, I don’t think you _can_ wipe the slate clean: I don’t think doing good deeds erases the bad someone’s done.” He sees Moriarty’s face fall, and in his confusion, words keep coming out of his mouth. “Everyone’s a pile of good and bad things, and you hope that, in the end, the good outweighs the bad. So people can think of you as a good person, even remembering the bad you’ve done.” And then, just so he’s being clear: “I’m not a good person. I’ve done bad things, things that some people wouldn’t forgive me for, like going abroad and shooting at people the government told me were bad. Like prioritising my soulmate’s life above the law. I just… no one’s a good person.”

Moriarty stares at him, looking like he just can’t wrap his mind around what John’s saying.

“I don’t understand what the difference is,” Moriarty says finally. “I don’t understand why you fall within the correct moral boundaries and I don’t.”

John opens his mouth to say that he hasn’t killed people, to say that he hasn’t killed people for personal gain, but that’s not true. After a few seconds’ struggle, he manages to force an answer out.

“I didn’t enjoy doing the bad things I’ve done. They only felt like the only things I could have done.”

“Oh,” Moriarty says. He pauses, and then says, sounding almost fragile, as though the wrong response could break him into a thousand pieces, “But if I don’t do the bad things, then it’s all the same, right?”

John stares at him.

“Sure, I… guess,” he says, confused. Then he sighs out of his nostrils, somewhere between weary and annoyed. “Why are you even asking about all of this?”

“I want to be someone you can like,” Moriarty shrugs.

“Wait, what?”

Moriarty looks at him like he’s a little slow.

“What about the words ‘you’re my soulmate’ do you not understand?” he snorts, and it sounds somewhere between amazed and annoyed.

“But I’m–” John stutters. “”But you’re–” He stares at Moriarty, uncomprehending. “Why? Why are you trying to… change yourself,” he asks, pausing on the word ‘change’ because he doesn’t quite believe it’s true.

Moriarty’s left hand reaches for his shirt again, and he smiles sadly.

“Because I’m sure you could never want me otherwise. I’ve already done you wrong, and it’s the least I can do to try and make up for it.”

John still can’t wrap his mind around the concept of Moriarty trying to stop being bad just because he found his soulmate. Moriarty trying to change himself for _John_.

Moriarty seems to catch where his thoughts are swirling, and he rolls his eyes, looking almost frustrated.

“Do you ask why you accept Sherlock’s experiments in the fridge? Do you wonder why he brings you with him on cases? Do you wonder why any other soulmates do things for each other? Why can you not believe that I just want you to be happy?”

“Because you don’t know me!” John retorts, knowing even as he says it how stupid it is.

“But I trust the fates,” Moriarty says simply, like it’s enough to just trust the fates, even though John always has until now. Moriarty seems to recognise the warring emotions on his face, because his expression turns pleading, and he says, “ _A rún mo chroí_ , I am trying. I made myself a promise and I am trying as hard as I can keep it.”

“Why?” John says again, realising he’s sounding like a broken record and hating it. “What sort of promise?”

Moriarty doesn’t answer immediately, his hands reaching up to undo the top few buttons of his pristine white shirt. He pulls it over his shoulder so John can once again see the words inked across it: _hi you too don’t hurt me you strapped a bomb._

“With words like this, you know you’re going to have to fight for forgiveness,” he says calmly.

Rage and pity tear at him: pity that someone could grow up with such depressing words on their skin, and rage that he feels pity for the person who made him into a bomb.

“Why did you do it then?” John grits out. “Why do those things if you knew you were going to have to ask forgiveness?”

He asks this as though he doesn’t know that it doesn’t work like that. The fates can’t be changed once they’re written in your skin.

“I didn’t know who you’d be,” Moriarty shrugs. “Maybe you’d be someone like me, and there wouldn’t be much to forgive. Besides, people like me aren’t very good at focussing on intangible, long-term goals when it’s so much easier and quicker to just… let yourself do it. I thought it was better do do what I wanted and make up for it later.”

There’s a strange, almost haunting, truth to those words.

Moriarty always sounds so earnest; he hasn’t wavered in the weeks they’ve been talking. He has kept to his story magnificently. He’s been very tenacious. John doesn’t think he can match that.

The realisation is both sudden and gradual: John’s spent so much effort trying to stand his ground that he’s missed the water that’s been pooling around him the entire time.

He’s drowning.

It’s so tiring to believe everything Moriarty says is a lie.

Would it be so terrible to believe that Moriarty is telling the truth?

He feels bone-weary as he looks back at Moriarty, seeing him truly for the first time. He looks so earnest, and desperate for John’s approval, and even with the echoes of ‘ _don’t– don’t h-h– don’t hurt me_ ’ ringing in his mind, John’s disbelief crumbles.

“Have you really, truly killed no-one since then?” he whispers, afraid to hear the answer, because he knows what it will be, and that he’s going to believe it.

“ _A ghiota m’anam_ , I promise you,” Jim whispers back, “I have killed no one.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the meal is like falling through an endless chasm. Every moment John is sure his feet will hit the bottom, and yet they never do. He’s tumbling through space, more unnerved by each word from Moriarty that he believes is true.

“Are you okay, John?” Jim asks him every few moments, brow furrowed in concern.

Jim can read him well enough to tell that John feels completely untethered. John doesn’t know how to feel about that.

John nods his head slowly, but there is numbness running through his veins.

“You look…” Moriarty pauses here, clearly unsure how to describe what John looks like, which is understandable, as John doesn’t quite know what he feels like. Perhaps he’s going into shock. “You seem disturbed,” Moriarty finally settles on.

“What are you doing now?” John asks suddenly, trying to find something tangible to draw himself back with. “You said you’re not…”

“I’m not,” Moriarty says, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “I’m still running some... less morally objectionable things at the moment. I’m sure you won’t approve, so I have plans to end it all completely once I know what else to move on to.”

“You’re stopping everything?” John says, blinking in surprise.

“Well,” Jim says, shrugging with a small, sad smile, “you would ask me to stop if you believed asking would change anything, wouldn’t you?”

“I– I guess I would,” John says, somewhat uncertainly, because he doesn’t see why they’re talking about hypothetical situations that won’t happen.

Moriarty smiles and raises an eyebrow in an expression that says his answer explains everything.  

“Well, what are you going to do instead then?”

He asks this question more as an accusation than a genuine question. What could Moriarty do with his skills other than run a crime syndicate?

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he shrugs.

If the only thing stopping Moriarty… Jim… from ending his consulting criminal ways is a lack of direction, perhaps John can help with that.

Moriarty is a very intelligent person, so something menial like deskwork is unlikely to keep him out of trouble, and John discards that idea immediately. He doesn’t have any interest in people, so doctor isn’t a good shout: John’s not about to inflict that on the population of London. Beyond that, John isn’t really sure what Moriarty enjoys.

“What did you like doing at school?” he asks, becoming actually a little curious. “Was there anything you chose to do in your free time?”

“I very much enjoyed Maths,” Jim says slowly. “It had a logic to its puzzles but could be quite fiendish regardless. I didn’t really do much outside of school. That usually required having friends.”

It would sound sad coming from anyone else, but Moriarty’s teeth are showing in a slight smile, and John understands it for what it is: an admission that he cared for no-one.

And yet here he is, trying to make nice with John because he dearly wants something from him. Has Moriarty ever put so much effort into making someone like him?

The question of ‘why’ is on his tongue again, but he knows he’s already asked it so many times and got the exact same response. Perhaps he keeps wanting to ask it because he’s never got a satisfactory answer. For anyone else, ‘you’re my soulmate’ would be answer enough, but he needs to understand how that can be an answer for a sociopath, who should have trouble empathising with anyone other than themselves.

“What makes me different from those other people? Why are you putting so much effort into getting to know me?” He clicks his tongue in annoyance because he knows he’s not phrasing the question well enough to get a new answer. “You’ve admitted that you’re a sociopath. How can you be so drawn to the idea of a person?”

For the first time since he’s asked this question, he hopes he’ll get an answer that will help him to understand. He truly wants to know. He believes Moriarty’s words now, somehow trusts that Moriarty does want him, even if he doesn’t understand how that can be true. If he can just understand how it is, perhaps this can work.

Jim stares at him, seeming surprised by the question. Then his expression turns worriedly thoughtful, and John wonders if Jim realises that this could be the answer that makes or breaks him.

“I’ve known you’ve existed since as long as I can remember,” Jim finally says slowly. “I knew there was someone out there who could match me like a puzzle piece, so even when everything else fell apart, I knew there was another half of me out there, waiting. I never saw you as separate from myself, so I could hold onto you through everything. There was never a reason to lose you.”

“So you… still feel for me?” John frowns. “You can empathise with me?”

Jim shakes his head, almost apologetically, looking concerned that his answer will upset John.

“No. I can’t empathise with anyone; I can’t imagine what it’s like to be anyone else. But you’re an extension of me, even if I can’t feel what you feel, and I can sympathise with you because of that; I understand logically what you must be feeling, and I want to alleviate the negative things you feel. For you to be upset would be like me being upset, even if I can’t actually feel that sadness.”

John blinks.

“That must be very frustrating for you.”

Jim stares at him for a second, and then laughs in surprise.

“It is,” he says, still smiling slightly. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, and yet I want it to stop. I can’t understand how people manage to deal with feeling that sort of thing for everyone else, as well as actually being able to feel what others feel. It seems like rather a lot of effort.”

It seems crazy, but John is starting to feel like he actually understands Moriarty a little bit. He can sort of imagine that if Moriarty thinks of John as “his”, like a prized possession, that even if he couldn’t understand how John felt, he would still want it “fixed”. It seems rather a crude analogy, but John will be the first to admit he can’t imagine how it feels to live without empathy, and it’s the best sort of explanation he can come up with.

Relief slowly bleeds into the numbness in his body, and he smiles.

“So you liked Maths?”

“Studied it at University actually,” Jim shrugs. “Got a Phd.”

“Wait,” John says, looking at him in disbelief, “so you’re actually _Dr._ Moriarty?”

Moriarty shrugs again. “Something to do while I was building everything up.”

John hums thoughtfully, choosing to ignore the obvious euphemism for the moment. He’ll drive himself mad again if he starts fighting that battle.

“Have you thought about going back to it? Doing research?”

Jim looks at him thoughtfully.

“Perhaps I could think about it,” he concedes.

The relief trickles further through John’s body.

Perhaps this is how it all begins. It seems insane to think: even in the hour they’ve been talking, Jim has said things that make no motion to hide the fact that he’s a sociopath. And yet, that sociopath has stopped killing people because it would upset his soulmate.

It’s more change than John has ever seen in one of his relationships, even if, to a normal person, it shouldn’t be something one has to concede on. But starting from the premise that Moriarty is a genuine sociopath who cares about no-one other than himself and his soulmate? It’s almost monumental.

The weight of all that Jim is aiming to give him hits him like a sledgehammer, and for a moment his heart stops. In that sliver of time, he is frozen, staring into Jim’s eyes. A great wave of feeling washes over him, and he is helpless to prevent it overwhelming him.

This is the moment of no return.  

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for John to decide that if this the rabbit hole he’s tumbling down, he’s got to figure out what’s at the bottom. So, inevitably, John spends the next few days researching sociopathy, because, despite living with self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes, he doesn’t know that much about how sociopaths tick. John has to admit that’s probably because, to him, Sherlock never seemed to fall too far out of the “normal people” spectrum; he tended to view the strange things Sherlock said or did as “Sherlock Quirks” rather than “Symptoms of a Sociopath”. So, even though he knows that Sherlock is not a criminal, John is nevertheless surprised to find out that not all sociopaths are criminals.

He spends some time trying to wrap his mind around this idea. He understands that Sherlock is able to find stimulation in solving crimes, but he can’t seem to click with the idea that many sociopaths live relatively normal lives and don’t end up in jail. Sherlock he can understand, but that’s because Sherlock gets such mental stimulation from solving crimes that he doesn’t see the point of committing them. He can’t imagine how a sociopath in a regular day job is able to stop themselves.

He probes deeper into the web to find answers, because this is one of the roots of his continuing apprehension with Jim that really needs to be dug up if this is going to have even a _chance_ of working. Yet the information he stumbles upon here requires even more contemplation: the idea of religious sociopaths.

It takes him a little while to digest the information explaining how such people could exist, because it flies in the face of what he thought sociopathy was. The answer is quite simple once he’s ready to listen: in their own words, some sociopaths choose to follow a religion because it gives them a code to live by, enforced by friends and family, that keeps them out of jail. They see the logical advantage of tying themselves to a set of rules, even though it prevents them from acting how they might instinctively want to, because it keeps them free to act in other ways.

John hadn’t realised that sociopaths could be so logical. In his mind, little though he’d thought about them, sociopaths had always been people ruled by passion who ended up in jail because the smallest things could trigger them to murder. Looking back, he knows that can’t be true, because he’s never once considered that Sherlock could one day snap and kill someone; he’s always thought Sherlock had too much logic and not enough emotion for that.

But according to these people, even those who weren’t like Sherlock could choose.

The realisation crystallizes: Jim could choose to live by a set of rules, if he wanted to. If he thought that the sacrifice was worth something greater.

_Fear not, a chuid den tsaol, I will kill no one._

 

* * *

 

It becomes frighteningly easy to enjoy spending time with Jim. Whenever Sherlock’s out, Jim comes along to buy him ice-cream, or have a stroll with him beside the river, or take him to a museum exhibit Jim thought he would be interested in.

As time goes on, John starts to wonder if Jim had been holding back whilst trying to woo him, because once John starts acting like they’re friends, Jim starts to touch John in a way he hadn’t before: little brushes of their hands, a playful elbow in the ribs, a hand on his shoulder to say hello.

Their lives slot together so easily that John doesn’t even think about it, the same way he hadn’t really thought twice about moving in with Sherlock having met him once.

They go get ice-cream, Jim with three scoops of triple chocolate and one love potion number 31, John growing adventurous with one scoop of strawberry cheesecake and one of baseball nut, and Jim reaches for John’s hand and John lets him take it. Jim licks at his love potion number 31, grinning to himself contentedly.

They go out for dinner at a suitably fancy place for soulmates. The steak costs £84 and Jim refuses to let him pay, eventually slipping a card to the waiter under the pretense of going to the bathroom and John feels so guilty and yet so charmed when the waiter arrives at the table and says Jim’s already paid.

They go to a Britney Spears concert and Jim knows all the words to Toxic, belting them out at the front of the crowd where John can only watch him in almost horrified amusement. They get crushed against the barrier more times than they can count and John has to get pulled out because he can’t breathe properly, and Jim follows him right after because he doesn’t want to leave him by himself. They end up getting an amazing view from the sidelines and Jim doesn’t stop babbling about it for a week.

They go out every week, and in front of his eyes, Jim becomes a person. Spending time with him, John learns to see the soft spots between his jagged edges. Things he would have identified as sociopathic traits become quirks, and a sociopathic mindset becomes another way of thinking, no less acceptable than his own.

Even just a few months ago, such thoughts would have been anathema to him. Now, though, he can see how judgemental it is to think that one word can describe everything about a person. It’s funny how getting to know a sociopath could make him a more empathetic person.

If only John could bring himself to tell Sherlock what might be happening to him, it would all be perfect.

 

* * *

 

“I’m seeing someone,” John says, his hands holding tightly onto the edges of the dresser, frowning at himself in the mirror. “It’s not– We haven’t– Not that it matters, it’s just…” He sighs. “It’s Jim Moriarty.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Yeah, great John, that’s the best way to do it. Straight in for the kill.” He straightens up and tries again. “I’ve met my other soulmate and it’s… not who I was expecting and I want you to know that I tried– But he’s my soulmate and I accepted everything about you so– No that’s stupid!” he admonishes himself. “I can’t compare keeping a head in the fridge with being a mastermind criminal... Can I?” He shakes his head. “Okay, he’s my soulmate and I’ve finally accepted that. It’s still early days because it’s a massive thing to overcome, who he is, but I think that I really am growing to… to like him because he… he’s so good around me and I _know_ he’s done terrible things, but I have too and he’s trying, he hasn’t even– he’s told me he hasn’t… and I believe him.” John runs a hand down his face. “God, he’s going to know who it is before I even get it out.”

His phone buzzes and he turns away from the dresser to pick it up.

 _I’m outside,_ _a mhuirnín_

John smiles and puts thoughts of telling Sherlock to one side. He grabs his jacket and keys and bounds down the stairs to greet Jim. John smiles at him and links their hands together. It feels natural by now, and he tries not to think about how the John of just two months ago would have thrown himself into traffic before ending up here.

“Are you going to be any more adventurous this time?” Jim teases as they cross the road.

“I’ll have you know that pistachio almond is perfectly adventurous,” John replies, mock offended. “It has two different flavours of nut!”

“Oh go on, Johnny,” Jim wheedles, holding the door of Baskin-Robbins open for him. “Just a liiittle bit of chocolate? For me?”

“I see what this is,” John says, nudging his elbow into Jim’s side. “You just want an extra flavour on the side.”

Jim pouts and doesn’t deny it. John can’t help but laugh at him, shaking his head.

“We’ll see.”

Jim makes a face at him, before running up to the counter, doing his usual routine of pacing up and down the length at least three times before making a decision. John taps his foot good-naturedly while he waits for Jim to decide.

“One caramel chocolate crunch, one chocolate mousse royale, one winter white chocolate and one dulche de leche, in a cone,” Jim finally demands of the server at the counter. At one look from John, he adds a, “Please,” and a “Thank you,” once he receives his order. John can only roll his eyes.

He’s learned that Jim definitely has a problem with remembering things like being nice to people other than John. He knows that Jim can play people like a fiddle when he wants to, so John’s working theory is that Jim’s often too focused on more immediate things, like ice-cream, to bother with social niceties if it’s not part of some major scheme.

In a strange way, John almost likes it: it helps him believe this is all real. It would be easy for Jim to pretend to be a model citizen, but these blips make John pretty sure he’s seeing the real Jim: someone who doesn’t care about anyone other than himself, except presumably John, and won’t pretend otherwise.

Even believing this, John makes Jim go through the motions of these social niceties anyway, because once Jim knows his point has been made, he seems happy to make John happy. It’s a nice contrast from being in public with Sherlock to be able to glare someone into saying ‘please’.

“For me,” John says, stepping up to the counter, “One chocolate chip,” – he continues more loudly through Jim’s moan – “and one peanut butter and chocolate, in a cup.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jim whip to face him with an expression where John can almost see the stars in his eyes.

“You’re an adventurer, John,” he says reverently and John reddens under such worship.

He doesn’t admit that he mostly picked it because he knew it would make Jim happy, not because he actually wanted it; he doesn’t really like chocolate ice-cream all that much.

He’s glad he got a cup because the beating sun is melting the ice-cream like crazy, although Jim looks perfectly happy to slurp up the ice-cream running onto his hand. They end up walking in a peaceful silence while they try to race against the gradual degradation of the ice-cream into liquid.

John finishes first because he always only ever gets two scoops. How Jim manages to stay so skinny with the now weekly ice-cream trips, where he always gets four scoops, is a little beyond him, especially because he’s making Jim eat more regularly by inviting him out to lunches and dinners.  

John can’t help but snicker as he watches Jim furiously licking at the two scoops he still has remaining, because Jim hasn’t noticed that he’s got a smidge of chocolate mousse royale on his nose. It’s quite adorable.

Suddenly, it seems so silly that they haven’t kissed before now. Without even really thinking, John puts an arm around Jim’s waist and leans in. Jim takes all of a second to be surprised before he leans forward to meet John.

It’s the sweetest kiss John’s ever tasted, which makes it all the easier to sink into it. It feels like only seconds have passed when he finally pulls away, though logically he knows it must have been much longer; Jim’s hand is covered in melted ice-cream.

Jim looks almost dazed as he stares back at John.

“You’ve got ice-cream on your nose, by the way,” John says grinning.

Jim wipes it away, flushing deeply, and John can’t help but take pity on him, so he kisses him again. By the time they return to Baker street, they are both covered in ice-cream, but neither of them can seem to care.

 

* * *

 

Jim plays everything so well that John almost forgets sometimes that his life is spent fighting against his basest instincts. He's learnt that Jim tends to feel emotions much more strongly than empathetic people, but the emotions burn through much quicker. Quite often, that seems to be his saving grace. Sometimes, though, John's presence helps more than anything else. 

They are holding hands through a crowded street on their way back from a cafe date. Before John knows what is happening, someone's shoulder slams into Jim's, wrenching them apart momentarily. He doesn't know if it was done on purpose, but he shoots a glare behind him as he reaches out for Jim's hand. But Jim's hand pulls away almost instantly, and John blinks, turning to look at him. 

A coldness has settled on Jim's face, and John sees him start to move after the person who shoved them. Instinctively, almost panicked for a moment, he grabs Jim's hand again, but holds fast this time. Jim, barely noticing, continues trying to pull away, his eyes resolutely focussed on someone in the crowd. 

John tugs him under the awning of a shop window to move them out of the crowd, and takes his other hand. Jim's head is still turned away from him, watching someone John can't see. 

"Jim," he says calmly. 

Watching Jim's face, he sees the moment that coldness falls away as Jim realises what he's doing. Slowly, as his eyes track back to John's, his pupils widen.

Seeing Jim come back to him, John smiles. Jim doesn't return it, too busy searching John's eyes for something that isn't there. 

"I wouldn't have done it,  _a ghiota m’anam,_ " he begs, desperation clear in every inch of his body. "I would have stopped myself, I would have–"

"Sh," John says, and kisses him. When he pulls away, Jim is staring at him in shock and confusion. "I know you would have."

And honestly? He does. 

 

* * *

 

“Another date?” Sherlock asks as John is heading out the door. It’s thrown out semi-casually, but John detects some deeper note in it, even if he can’t quite detect its meaning. “Is it the same woman?”

Sherlock proves once again that, despite his brilliance in many areas, guessing gender seems to be a weak spot of his. However, at this point, John sees no reason to correct him, partially because he’s trying to cast as little suspicion on himself as possible until he finally comes clean. He still hasn’t quite figured out a decent way to do that.

“Yeah,” he answers, making sure to add no extra information. The more he leaves Sherlock to do the guesswork, the smaller the chance is that he lets something slip. Not to mention that he doesn’t particularly enjoy outright lying to his soulmate, so the less he says, the better.

“Sounds like it’s getting serious,” Sherlock notes.

John hesitates, unsure how to tackle the comment.

“Perhaps,” he allows, uncertainly. “We haven’t really talked about where this is going or anything but–”

“Ugh,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “No, boring! Go out on your little date, go do your… people stuff with this woman of yours. Just let me know if you decide to move out.”

John’s mouth falls open automatically as he frowns in genuine confusion, needing a second to work out where Sherlock’s mind is jumping to.

“Sherlock,” he says calmly, “I’m not going to move out. I want to live here, with you.”

Sherlock scoffs slightly, staring at the laptop screen in front of him.

“Even if this woman isn’t enough to enact a change, your soulmate will be.”

“You are my soulmate,” John says, exasperated.

“I meant your romantic soulmate.”

A bolt of lightning strikes through John’s heart.

“What do you mean?” he asks automatically, blankly, but then his brain catches up with him. “I mean, so what? _You’re_ my soulmate too, and I’m not going to move out just because I find someone else.”

Sherlock’s nose twitches in repressed anger. To anyone else, he would seem calm.

“Society prioritises romantic attraction above friendship. I’m not a fool, John; I know what will happen once you find this person.”

John bites his tongue as he holds back the words that Sherlock knows nothing about John, about his other soulmate.

“Maybe it does, but I am not society,” John says firmly. “I have no plans to move out. When my soulmate and I have a discussion about this, whenever that may be, we will reach a mutual decision between the three of us. Because you both will need to be a part of my life.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, and John knows that it’s because he doesn’t believe him. Sherlock doesn’t trust things like words so easily.

“You’ll see,” John says softly. “Anyway, I’ve got to head out now. I’ll see you when I get back?”

Sherlock makes a noise that could mean anything. John decides to take it as acceptance, and slips out the door and down the stairs to the street.

He was planning to walk, but he’s now running a little later than he’d wanted. Thankfully he hails a cab quickly and gives the driver directions to the restaurant. It’s not until he’s sitting back in the seat, watching the bright lights rush past, that he realises this is the first cab he’s been in since he was taken to the pool. His hands start to shake but he clasps them together and that stops the worst of it.

He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, especially because anyone else might think it would be counter-productive given the situation, but he pulls out his phone and dials Jim’s private number.

“Hi, Johnny,” Jim chirps, “I’m almost at the restaurant, where are you?”

“I’m in a cab,” John says slowly, shakily, and he wants to curse himself for how stupid he’s being, but he knows that’s not how PTSD works.

“Are you okay, John?” Jim asks, his voice instantly changing tone. “Has someone taken you?”

“No,” John laughs, his voice wobbling slightly. “That’s what’s so… I haven’t been in a cab since that night at the pool.”

It takes a moment, but Jim lets out a small, quiet, “Oh.”

“It’s stupid,” John says suddenly, feeling angry at himself for getting worked up and wanting to reassure Jim he’s fine and go back to being normal. “I’m fine, I’ll just–”

“No, _a rún mo chroí_ , it’s not stupid,” Jim says firmly. “I had assumed… Is there anything else I should know about? Do you want me to do anything?”

“Not a fan of chlorine,” John replies, partly just to keep himself talking, to keep his mind off the taxi. “It’s not as bad as it was. Don’t really like feeling heavily packed either, backpacks and that sort of thing.” He hadn’t even really noticed that one was true until he’s saying it. “People speaking things in my ears through headphones.” He takes a deep breath. “And no, you don’t need to do anything. Just keep talking to me for now.”

He wonders what Jim meant by ‘do anything’. He knew instinctively that it was some sort of inquiry about the people who took him, but they only did so on Jim’s orders. Being a military man, John certainly can’t judge them for that.

It’s the first time in a long time that John’s remembered what Jim used to be to him. He doesn’t know whether he chose not to think about it, or if he’d genuinely forgotten how cold Moriarty was then. Moriarty didn’t care who got hurt, as long as it got him to Sherlock. Moriarty wouldn’t have cared about the trauma he caused someone by having them kidnapped off the street and held at gunpoint. He wouldn’t even have thought about it.

And yet his Jim asks if there’s anything else he should know about and if he can do anything.

Jim is not Moriarty anymore, not to him.

John tunes in to Jim’s stream of consciousness as he says, “I’m just arriving at the restaurant, I’m going to wait in the lobby for you. Are you running late?”

“A little,” John says, glad to distract himself from his thoughts. “Only five minutes or so.”

“Don’t worry, _a_ _ghrá geal_ , I’ll stay on the phone till you get here,” Jim promises and John can feel a warmth spreading through his body at the words.

Jim is too good to him.

 

* * *

 

When he gets to the restaurant, his heart breaks to he sees Jim rush over to him, instinctively making a move to hold him before suddenly stopping himself. It’s the first time he’s seen Jim show such uncertainty in where he stands with John since those early meetings.

John pulls Jim towards him and hugs him tight, trying to infuse the feeling of certainty into him.

“I’m fine,” he whispers as he pulls away. “I’m fine.”

Jim smiles back at him, which means it probably worked.

They’re lead over to the table and the server places a menu in front of each of them. John picks his up and starts skimming through it, but Jim doesn’t, choosing to watch him instead.

John will be the first to admit that Jim’s mind is still a bit of a black box for him: he has no idea what goes on inside. As such, he’s not really sure what thoughts are passing through Jim’s mind right now, but he thinks it’s best to just let Jim do Jim for the moment.

John’s just decided on a main when Jim finally seems to have finished stewing things in his head.

“Do you feel fear?” he asks abruptly.

“Uh,” John says, blinking. “Yeah. Generally. I mean, I’m able to feel fear, yeah.”

“Can you stop?”

John stares at him for a moment, never more strongly reminded that Jim, normal as he plays with John, does not experience life in the same way John does.

“No,” he says finally, “it’s kind of involuntary.”

Jim emits a thoughtful hum, so perhaps his question was more curiosity than anything else.

“What does it feel like?” Jim asks, and John’s eyes widen at the unexpected question. He twists his mouth in thought.

“Have you ever felt so excited about something you felt almost sick?”

Jim watches him for a few seconds, head tilted in consideration.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s sort of like that, only you feel sick because you dread what’s coming, or what’s happening. Your heart beats faster, you sweat, and all you can think of is trying to escape.”

A strange, twisted look appears on Jim’s face, and John can’t for the life of him place what it might be. Whatever Jim’s experiencing, it doesn’t look particularly pleasant, so John decides to try distracting him.

“Do you want to move in together?” he asks. “I mean, when the time comes, have you thought about how we would do that?”

Jim, warily, nods, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Okay, well,” John says, “I have no plans currently to move out of 221B. I love Sherlock and–”

He breaks off suddenly, because on the word ‘love’, Jim’s face twists and in a flash, John is facing a snarling, bloodthirsty wolf. Jim’s vicious expression lasts just long enough to be seen and then it dissolves as though it had never happened.

John’s heart pounds in a drumbeat of fear because he is not stupid enough to pretend he didn’t just see that. His hand automatically grips the tablecloth to stop it from shaking, and yet when he speaks, his voice is calm.

“Is Sherlock safe?”

“Of course he’s safe, _a chuisle_ ,” Jim says. His voice is flat and emotionless. “You would never forgive me if anything happened to him.”

If it had been even a few months ago, that sentence would have been a slap in the face; proof of how emotionless and amoral Jim was. Now, though, John appreciates it for what it truly is: honesty. Jim cannot tell him that he doesn’t want to kill Sherlock, because it’s not true, at least not in this moment. But Jim can truthfully tell him enough to put him at ease: he won’t act because the cost is too great.

John lets go of the tablecloth.

“What happened?” he asks, concerned.

He leans forward and puts his hand over Jim’s. Jim’s hand twitches, and John can see the hesitation on his face before he turns it over to hold John’s hand. Relief crosses his features when John lets him, though John doesn’t know why he should be surprised.

“It’s my fault,” Jim says flatly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but John waits patiently. “I knew you felt that way but I wasn’t prepared for hearing…”

“Maybe I should have been gentler–”

“No,” Jim says quickly. “No. It was my fault. Of course you can use that word however you want.”

“You know I feel that love differently for him,” John says, and it’s somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Yes,” he grits out. “Logically.”

A wave of affection and heartache washes over him. His lovely Jim, cursed with terrible emotions that run deeper than his own, is struggling against what must be a tidal wave of anger and hatred and bitterness, without any way to let it out.

John moves his chair around the table, and pulls Jim towards him. He’s not at all surprised at how hungrily Jim devours him; he always kisses John as though he wants to leave as much of himself behind as he can, but this time, there is, understandably, a desperation that is not normally present. His left hand runs through John’s hair, and his right clenches around his shirt. John can feel how much Jim wishes he could jump into John’s lap and press himself against every inch of him.

“I’m yours,” John says when Jim finally pulls away for a second. He knows he shouldn’t have said it, but Jim will always have that possessive itch to scratch, and John wants to give him something to hold on to, in this moment where ‘I love you’ might not be enough.

“ _A bheatha_ ,” Jim breathes, and kisses him again.

 

* * *

 

John could spend the next few hours kissing Jim, but out of the corner of his eye he soon spots the waiter make an aborted step towards them, hesitating when he realises they’re busy. Giving Jim a final kiss on the lips, John pulls back and waves the waiter over, conveniently forgetting that neither he nor Jim have looked at the menu. He yanks the menu towards him and pours over it as the waiter approaches. Jim doesn’t bother.

“You folks ready to order?”

“Yes,” John lies, pulling his chair back into position to avoid looking at the waiter. “Jim?”

Jim smiles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head slightly, clearly seeing right through him.

“I’ll have the cranberry glazed duck,” he says without hesitating, handing over his menu.

John curses Jim for always being so prepared.

“I’ll have the salmon,” John says, pretty sure his eye had caught that word in his quick perusal of the menu.

“The dijon salmon?” the waiter asks.

“Yes,” John agrees, glad that he hasn’t managed to make a fool of himself.

“Very good,” the waiter nods, taking John’s menu and leaving.

John looks back over to Jim, who seems his normal, calm, collected self.

“So,” he starts.

“You love Sherlock and don’t want to move out,” Jim prompts, grimacing slightly on the word ‘love’, but John can tell that he’s playing it up a little. John rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“But I also love you, and I want you to move in,” John says firmly. “If you want to,” he adds quickly. “If you don’t–”

“I do.”

John face breaks into a grin, and he sees Jim’s slowly do the same.

“Do you…” John hesitates.

In his mind, starting this conversation had been about a distant future. But now that they’re talking about it, he wants Jim with him, always. He wants Jim to be infused with his life, the same way Sherlock is.

“All we would need to do is tell Sherlock,” John offers.

Jim’s smile widens.

“Is that a yes?” John teases.

John can see it takes all of Jim’s willpower not to tackle him there and then and smother him with kisses. He doesn’t manage to show so much restraint later that night, but John doesn’t really mind.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock, violin held lazily over his shoulder, grunts from the couch in acknowledgement. John, tea in hand, collapses into the chair opposite him.

“Sherlock, I’ve been a bit dishonest about something.”

“People inevitably are,” Sherlock sighs, and rests his bow against the strings of the violin to play a few sharp notes. When John doesn’t continue, he lifts his head up to look at John’s face, and his bored expression dissolves into an approximation of concern. “Oh,” he says. “You want to talk about something.”

“Yeah,” John says, taking a sip of tea.

He’s rather glad for the tea; it was Jim’s suggestion that he have something in his hands to distract him and make him seem less nervous.

“You know I’ve been seeing someone recently,” John admits, “but I haven’t been 100% honest about who they are. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be honest, but there was a lot going on that I had to figure out before I could become comfortable with them.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, looking bored again. “It’s a _boy_ friend. John, I’ve known you were bi since–”

“That’s not it,” John interrupts, before Sherlock can get started on something ridiculous like saying the way he gets into a car gave away his interest in all genders. “I mean, yes, he is male, but that’s not why it took some time to accept him.” He takes a deep breath. “I met my other soulmate.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says again, before John can get any more out. “Ah. So you’ll be moving out?”

“Oh my god, Sherlock, honestly!” he says, exasperated. “Can you let me finish what I want to say instead of second-guessing what it is I want to say with every sentence?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a deep breath. “I already told you, I won’t move out just because I’ve met my other soulmate. In fact, I want him to move in here.”

John pauses, and waits to see if Sherlock will say anything, but he remains, thankfully, silent. John grins: perhaps old dogs _can_ learn new tricks.

“He’s a professor,” John tells Sherlock. “He teaches maths at a university in London. He’s very intelligent; I think you two might get along, actually.”

Sherlock scoffs.

“No really! He’s probably as intelligent as you are,” John says, and sips at his tea again.

Sherlock frowns, and John recognises that frown: it’s the frown of a Sherlock who has realised a puzzle is before him and he has all the pieces to put it together. He hasn’t got much time before Sherlock figures it out.

“We didn’t meet in the best of ways, which is why it took some time for us to figure this all out, and why I’m only explaining this to you now. He’s hurt a lot of people, myself included. But he _is_ my soulmate, and once I gave him a chance, I saw how wonderful and charming he is. I… I think he’s changed from what he was. But I understand that that’s a personal realisation, and I can’t rely on anyone who knows him, or was hurt by him, accepting him.” He takes a deep breath. “That being said, I hope you can. I want you to meet him, and if you can accept him, I want him to move in.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens for a moment, and then relaxes, as a disbelieving realisation spreads across his face.

John’s phone chimes, and the doorbell rings.

“I told him he could come by,” John says, and pushes himself out of the armchair to answer the door.

Jim’s blank face breaks into a smile when John answers the door. John finds himself automatically smiling back. He takes Jim’s right hand in his left.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

John leads Jim up the stairs, and hesitates for only a moment at the door. As he pushes it open, Jim falls behind him, hidden by John’s body.

Sherlock is still on the couch when they enter, but now he’s sitting up, violin and bow abandoned beside him. He’s staring, wide-eyed, at Jim’s hand, clasped in John’s, disbelieving.

“Sherlock, this is Jim,” John says, and stands aside to let Jim be seen.

 

* * *

 

 

**Epilogue(s)**

 

Sherlock’s hands are steepled in deep thought as he stares blankly at the ceiling of 221B.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t solved it yet,” a voice sneers, and Sherlock jerks like a marionette.

“As you are well aware, one who already has the solution to a problem considers it obvious, simply by virtue of them believing that their knowledge set is applicable to everyone else,” Sherlock retorts.

John, who is stirring a pot of soup on the hob in the kitchen, rolls his eyes. Talk about hypocrisy.

“The great Sherlock Holmes!” Jim announces, completely ignoring him. “Can’t even solve a simple puzzle!”

“As I have already said–”

“Jim, stop teasing him,” John says, trying to sound weary but ruining it slightly with the grin on his face.

“But John,” Jim whines.

“Listen, I know for a fact that you haven’t solved it either,” John says sternly, shaking the wooden spoon he was using to stir the soup with at him. “Because if you had, you would be over here boasting to me about how much greater you are than “the great Sherlock Holmes”, rather than needling Sherlock over there who’s just trying to get his work done.” He adds in an undertone: “Which is amazing in and of itself.”

Jim’s addition to the household had made it much rarer for Sherlock to spend his time focusing solely on one of Lestrade’s cases; they tended to rile each other up by setting increasingly difficult puzzles, and Sherlock was often more interested in one of Jim’s puzzles than any murder.

Sherlock, already bored with the conversation now that it doesn’t require him speaking, goes back to looking at the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, John spies Jim open his mouth to distract Sherlock again.

“Jim, could you come help me with dinner?”

Jim’s mouth shuts with a click. He pouts, but shuffles over to the kitchen anyway. John rewards him with a kiss, and Jim’s pout dissolves away.

John grins to himself, passing the spoon over to Jim so he can watch the soup while John prepares the rest of the meal. Two sociopaths in the house, and yet it turns out _he’s_ the master of manipulation.

 

* * *

 

“John! There’s been a murder!”

John looks mournfully at the nearly full cup of tea in his hand and sighs. He brings the mug to his lips in a bittersweet final sip before setting it down.

“John!” Sherlock calls again.

John grabs his keys and his coat and rushes down the stairs. Two seconds behind him, Jim appears. John stares at him.

“You’re coming?” he says, and he tries his hardest to make it not sound like he’s surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he grins mischievously.

John knows better than to question Jim’s incomprehensible plans, so he just smiles back, shrugging.

“Ugh, fine, come on!” Sherlock says, pushing John out the door.

John hails a cab and Jim takes his hand as they get in. He’s pretty fine with cabs these days, but Jim still keeps an eye on him.

“Ohhh, I hope Anderson’s there,” Sherlock says gleefully.

John hopes he very much is not.

They pull up to the scene and Sherlock and Jim immediately hop out, leaving him to pay the cab fair. Typical.

He jogs after them and catches them as they read the police tape line, which is when Donovan spots them. John grimaces: he’s not sure Donovan is that much better than Anderson.

“Oh great,” she snipes. “Freak’s here.”

She nods curtly at John, who just manages to twist his face into something that could be called a friendly smile, if one were generous. He really does not appreciate that kind of language about Sherlock, and, even knowing it’s irrational to worry about _Jim_ , who can handle himself just fine, he doesn’t want that sort of label getting attached to Jim as well.

“And he’s brought another one,” she says flatly, eyeing up Jim.

John, watching her, doesn’t comprehend the sudden fear in her eyes at first. Then he turns to Jim.

John has heard a lot about the claimed ability of sociopaths to strike instinctive fear into the hearts of others with just one look. Sociopaths on the sites that he used to visit had a certain vicious pride about it, that all they needed to do was peel back the mark to reveal the hungry wolf behind it, and people would run. Run and never look back.

John has never seen such a look on Jim’s face before. He sees it now. Jim’s eyes are hard like diamonds, but curiously flat: there is no emotion behind them; nothing to hint that a human exists somewhere inside. His mouth is drawn wide in a smile full of knives.

“Jim,” John whispers, and slides his fingers between Jim’s.

In the instant Jim turns to him, his eyes are soft again, his mouth smiling gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Donovan’s mouth drop open.

Without either of them saying anything, Jim turns suddenly to Donovan and smiles blindingly brightly. He throws out his hand. Donovan stares at him.

“You must be Donovan!” he says enthusiastically. “I’ve heard _so_ much about you, oh my gosh! I can’t believe how cool it is that _this_ is your job!” He falters slightly. Anyone but John and Sherlock would believe it was real. “I mean, it’s not cool that people…” He drops his hand that Donovan hasn’t shaken and wrings his hands together for a moment, looking guilty, before he perks up again. “But it must be so great to know that you’re helping people! Solving mysteries! Gosh, I _wish_ I could do what you could do!”

Donovan has not stopped staring at him.

“What the fuck,” she whispers, eyes darting from Jim to John to Sherlock. “What the fuck. _What the fuck._ ”

John smiles sheepishly and raises an arm in what could be a half-shrug. She stares at him, horrified.

“Uh, we’ll just,” John says, and lifts up the police tape for Sherlock and Jim to pass under.

Donovan is still staring at them, mouthing the same words, over and over.

Sherlock strides purposefully straight ahead, leaving John and Jim to trail behind.

“Sherlock! John!” a relieved voice calls, and John spies Lestrade beckoning them over to him.

As they reach him, John sees him frown slightly at Jim.

“Who’s this then, Sherlock?” he asks suspiciously.

“Where’s the body?” Sherlock says, waving a hand in annoyance at being asked such unimportant questions.

“Uh, over here,” Lestrade says, turning to lead them, but Sherlock spots it and dashes on ahead. Lestrade rolls his eyes and turns to John and Jim.

“This is Jim,” John introduces awkwardly. “My soulmate and Sherlock’s… friend.”

He had hesitated for a word to describe what Jim and Sherlock are to each other, but there isn’t really one. He knows ‘friend’ is not an accurate description, so he’s a little surprised to see neither Jim nor Sherlock make a face at his use of the word.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Jim says, ducking his head and holding out his hand. Lestrade takes it, and Jim continues, “Sorry about– I mean, Sherlock said it would be fine... I told him I didn’t need to come, but he insisted. I can–” he drops Lestrade’s hand to indicate behind him, awkwardly. “If you want…”

“Oh thank God,” Lestrade says, grinning in obvious relief as he turns to John, who’s staring at him, bewildered at such a response. “He’s one of you.”

“What?” John responds automatically, still very much confused.

“Well, I thought be another Sherlock, God knows I can only just about handle one,” Lestrade snorts.

“Oh, yeah,” John says weakly. “Yup, Jim’s nothing like Sherlock.”

Jim elbows him playfully once Lestrade looks away, over to Sherlock. John elbows him back, grinning, and whispers, “Oh come on, you know if you didn’t want me to blow your cover, you should have _warned_ me!”

Lestrade interrupts them before they can get any further into a whispered, teasing argument.

“Ugh, we’d better get over there: he’s riling up Anderson again,” Lestrade says, giving John a significant look.

John groans, and half-jogs over to where he can see Sherlock, still as a statue, looking down at Anderson with unveiled disgust, while Anderson is ranting about something John can’t hear, shoving a finger into Sherlock’s face that looks dangerously close to taking an eye out.

“What’s going on?” John asks.

“Anderson was just reminding me of his continued brain damage,” Sherlock sneers, and Anderson’s hackles raise.

“He was trying to get past the line!” Anderson snaps, and glares at Lestrade. “You know how I feel about not being told he’s coming! Who knows what he’s here for if you’re not here to vouch for him!”

Lestrade sighs, and says, “Well clearly he is here with permission today. Let him through.”

Sherlock grins smugly at Anderson and makes to continue when Jim interrupts.  

“Wait, you’re going in like that?” Jim puts on an expression of concern. “You’ll contaminate the crime scene!”

“Thank you!” Anderson spreads his hands and looks up to the sky in vindication. “Finally, someone gets it!” Then he narrows his eyes at Jim. “Who are you?”

“Oh,” Jim says, going pink. John really has to marvel at how fucking good Jim is at blending in when he really wants to. “I’m uh, Jim. Nice to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand for Anderson to shake.

“You know what, Jim,” Anderson says, shaking Jim’s hand briefly, “it’s nice to see someone who actually knows the fucking basics of working at a crime scene. It’s a low fucking bar, but I guess that’s what it is these days.”

“I’m sorry about him,” Jim says, side-eyeing Sherlock, who’s slipped off to find the body. “I… I really haven’t known him that long and when he said he was helping the police, I thought… But he’s not really an expert, is he?”

Anderson’s chest puffs out and his chin raises with pride; he’s very pleased to hear these words.

“Well–” he starts, but he’s quickly interrupted by Donovan, who grabs his arm and yanks him towards her, hissing “What are you doing!”

“I’m just talking,” he says, looking baffled. A smug smile, even uglier than Sherlock’s is, overtakes his face, as he turns to Donovan. “Oh, you should have heard what Jim just said about–”

“I don’t care what he said,” she hisses again, and drags Anderson away to a nearby awning.

Curious, John edges towards them. He can only just about hear what they’re saying.

“He’s a freak,” Donovan whispers viciously, and John has to stop himself from marching over there and doing something he’ll regret.

“He seemed fine to me,” Anderson starts, but Donovan cuts him off.

“He looked at me like I was something to _eat._ ”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Anderson scoffs.

“I know what I saw,” Donovan snaps. “Just because _you_ don’t experience something, doesn’t mean it doesn’t–”

“Oh, not this again,” Anderson moans.

“Look,” Donovan whispers sharply. “That… _thing_ … is dangerous. I saw it in his eyes.”

“You do hear what you sound like, right?” Anderson says flatly.

Donovan lets out a small noise of frustration, and whispers lowly, angrilly, “Look, believe me, don’t believe me. But I _know_ that thing is something much worse than Sherlock. _Much_ worse.”

“Worse than Sherlock?” Anderson begins, and John decides he’s had enough. He slips back to Jim, who’s watching  and waiting for him patiently.

John slips his hand into Jim’s and says lowly, “I’ll never understand how your mind works. You did plan that, right?”

Jim grins at him, canines glinting.

“Some of it.”

John shakes his head in fond disbelief.

“I’ll never understand you.”

Sherlock bounds over to them a few minutes later, grinning.

“The plot thickens. Come on, then!”

John doesn’t bother asking where they’re going; all he needs to know is they’ll hopefully find another clue or conclusive answers wherever they end up.

“Oh, and,” Sherlock says gleefully, “did you see Anderson and Donovan arguing?”

Nothing makes Sherlock happier than seeing them miserable.

“I did,” John says, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Jim may have had something to do with that.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He glances over to Jim. “Maybe you are useful for something after all.”

Jim sticks his tongue out at him.

 

* * *

 

It’s one of the quiet days where Sherlock has gone off on his own in a sudden rush of inspiration, and Jim still has yet to come back from his lectures. John likes to use rare days like these for some private study, so he collects his book from the secret shelf under the bed that probably isn’t really a secret, and settles in to bed to read.

He gets so lost in the book, mouthing the words to himself as he goes, that he doesn’t hear Jim enter the room until he speaks.

“ _An bhfuil tú ag foghlaim Gaeilge_?” he asks, in beautiful, melodic Irish.

John starts, and drops the book in his lap. He whips round the look at Jim, feeling guilty; he’d wanted it to be a surprise.

“ _Táim_,” he replies, his words sounding painfully English as they come out of his mouth.

“ _Cén fáth_?” Jim asks, frowning.

“ _Mar… Mar_, uh… Oh, christ, I don’t have enough Irish for this. Because it always seemed important to you, Irish,” John shrugs. “You always use Irish pet names for me, but I’ve never asked what they meant and I thought it would be nice to be able to speak to you in… in your language.”

Jim stares at him, and John recognises this particular stare as the one where Jim is trying to work out the most appropriate way to react.

“You want to learn it, for me?” he says slowly.

“Yeah.”

A smile spreads across Jim’s face, and he crawls into bed next to John, snuggling up to him in the way he normally does, like he wants to press every inch of himself against John and become one with him.

“ _Beidh mé leatsa go deireadh an tsaoil, a rún mo chléibh_,” Jim whispers into his skin.

He doesn’t get all of it, but he gets enough: they will be together.

“ _Beidh mé leatsa_ ,” John repeats, and kisses Jim on the forehead.

Sherlock finds them several hours later, still entangled. Upon spotting them, he rolls his eyes dramatically and makes John budge up.

“There’s tons of space next to Jim,” John complains half-heartedly as he moves to make room for Sherlock, who immediately pounces on the bed and shuffles under the covers.

“Yes, but _Jim_ is not my soulmate,” he retorts, emphasising Jim’s name almost sarcastically, as he has done ever since John put a blanket ban on last name terms. It’s not the result he wanted, but it was just too strange to have his two soulmates referring to each other as though they were strangers, so it’s still an improvement.

“Is that a loud and particularly annoying pest I hear crawling into bed?” Jim mumbles sleepily. Somehow he’s not too sleepy to avoid nettling Sherlock it seems.

“I think I see a spider in the bed,” Sherlock sneers. “Perhaps I should take it outside.”

“Oh, stop it you two,” John says, without much heat. He’s beyond used to their bickering by now. To be honest, he almost finds it a bit sweet; he thinks part of the reason they bother each other so much is they’re not very used to wanting something so fiercely and having to share it, so to speak.

He kisses Jim’s cheek to appease him, and intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s long, pale ones.

“So, did you solve the case?” John asks Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes brighten.

“Of course I did, John,” he says, in a way that might sound condescending to anyone who doesn’t know Sherlock as well as John does. “It was all rather interesting! You see, the key thing was that the brother didn’t know that _Eliza_ had been the one to take the horse to the stable…”

As Sherlock continues excitedly, John watches Sherlock’s face open up and he smiles fondly. John briefly looks down to the dozing Jim in his arms and his smile grows.

This is where he wants to be, always.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed the ride :) As ever, I am a perfectionist, so I feel there was much more I could have added, but I would have driven myself mad, and this never would have been published. If you have any questions, about any minor detail, ask away! Chances are I put way too much thought into this than I needed to and I have an answer to your question lol.
> 
> Links below should return you to where you were in the text. If not, it's only a small scroll up :)
> 
> _Are you learning Irish?_
> 
> _I am_
> 
> _Why?_
> 
> _Because.... Because..._
> 
> _I will be with you to the end of life, (my) secret of my chest_
> 
>  
> 
> Jim's pet names  
>  
> 
>  _a chuisle_ \- (my) pulse
> 
>  _a chroí_ \- (my) heart
> 
>  _a chuid den tsaol_ \- (my) share of life
> 
>  _a rún mo chroí_ \- (my) secret of my heart
> 
>  _a ghiota m’anam_ \- (my) piece of my soul - this is one I created based on my (rudimentary) knowledge of Irish, so hopefully it's halfway correct
> 
>  _a mhuirnín_ \- (my) darling
> 
>  _a ghrá geal_ \- (my) bright love
> 
>  _a bheatha_ \- (my) life, (my) sustenance - another one I made up, so it's probably not got quite the right connotation, but I was aiming for the idea of, well, that Jim is admitting his need for John at even the most basic level i.e. he cannot live without him
> 
>    
> Final words: I have vague plans for a coda piece of an event (not told in this story) from Jim's perspective, which didn't quite fit here because of John's limited perspective. We'll see if I ever get round to it lol.


End file.
